


Inexorable

by dustbottle



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: Angst and Fluff and Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Getting Together, Getting to Know Each Other, Happy Ending, M/M, Post-Star Wars: The Force Awakens, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-24
Updated: 2017-05-24
Packaged: 2018-11-04 12:26:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 27,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10990920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dustbottle/pseuds/dustbottle
Summary: Poe hasn’t slept uninterrupted since the Finalizer. When Rey brings Luke Skywalker back to the Resistance base, he isn’t expecting that to change. Perhaps he should have.A story of healing and love and learning to trust again.Set Post-TFA.





	Inexorable

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [to the sky without wings](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5609887) by [leupagus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/pseuds/leupagus). 



Poe sleeps fitfully that night, like he has every night since the Finalizer. The nightmares are insistent and brutal and larger-than-life, dragging at him with heavy claws of metal and steel, chasing him relentlessly back into wakefulness. He wakes up sweating and gasping and tangled in his sheets, tear tracks still drying on his cheeks.

He doesn’t talk about it. He can’t.

Working on his X-Wing helps – even if he can feel BB-8 judging him when he starts manually taking apart his dashboard control panels again, for lack of anything better to do. Drinking and talking crap with Jess and Snap and the others helps. Being around Finn helps, too, more than Poe could ever have hoped for. Finn’s bright-eyed enthusiasm and easy acceptance are soothing, reassuring in a way Poe doesn’t fully understand.

In his more contemplative moments, he thinks that it might be because Finn represents hope – to him perhaps even more than to anyone else in the Resistance. The First Order is powerful and ruthless and terrifying, all that Poe knows to be true – but they still couldn’t have Finn. Even though he was raised from infancy to kill without thought, without guilt, even though he has never known his name or his family, even though he bears the gruesome scars of the First Order – he’s still Finn, unbroken and pure and _good_.

So maybe, just maybe, if Finn can live through that and come out human, then Poe can live through this. Even if it hurts to simply breathe sometimes; even if the friendly, comforting presence of his Force-sensitivity has turned into an unwelcome reminder, harsh and painful and constrictive; even if it feels like he will never get away from the searing agony of his wounds, invisible but no less real.

For the split second after Finn had woken up in the hospital wing and smiled at him with his heart in his eyes, Poe had mistaken the honest fondness blooming in his chest for something else. It was an easy mistake to make. Finn is kind and wickedly intelligent and brave, not to mention incredibly attractive, and Poe has always been generous and free with his heart and his affections.

But then Finn had asked for Rey, his voice rough from disuse but filled with hope, and the expected rush of disappointment hadn’t come. Instead Poe had explained carefully that Rey was gone for now, called away on a top secret Resistance mission – and any lingering doubt about the sincerity of Finn’s feelings was wiped away by his look of mingled fear and fierce pride at the news – but that she would return, and she had asked Poe to keep an eye on him in the meantime.

Finn had smiled at that, his dark eyes going soft and quietly, disbelievingly happy, and Poe had grinned broadly and reached for his hand on the hospital bed, squeezing it firmly and welcoming him back to the land of the living.

It has been two weeks since that day. Though still confined to the hospital wing, Finn is well on his way to recovery, growing stronger and more boisterous and restless by the minute. Poe comes to visit him whenever he’s on base, sitting with him and egging him on during his gruelling physical therapy sessions, smuggling in candy and fruits and books, talking and laughing about anything and everything until the nurses come to kick him out.

Finn has a lot of questions about a lot of different things, from politics to family dynamics to food to etiquette, and some of the gaps in his knowledge kind of break Poe’s heart – but Poe’s also delighted to discover that Finn’s quick wit and dirty mouth are a match for his own, and he can dish out as good as he gets.

When Finn starts asking for more and more stories on his friends, something eager and hopeful and young clear in his face, Poe just brings them around. He is worried at first about their reaction to Finn, and sees his own uncertainty echoed in Finn’s dark eyes – after all, Poe is not the only one in the Resistance to have suffered and lost at the hands of the First Order, and they both know it – but it turns out their concern had been unnecessary. Simon and Jess and Snap and Xan all instantly adore Finn, and the feeling is obviously and joyfully mutual. Poe watches them as they fall into an effortless rhythm, loud and brash and trustingly unguarded, and fondness is bright and almost painful in his chest.

*

Something is different today. Though there haven’t been any official announcements and General Organa hasn’t done or mentioned anything out of the ordinary, the entire base is buzzing with barely-contained excitement. On his way to the hospital wing to see Finn, Poe is stopped no fewer than five times by people seeking more information. Since he can honestly tell them he knows as much as they do, which is to say nothing, he reaches his destination fairly quickly – but if he’d expected to find shelter from the general atmosphere of breathless anticipation there, he is immediately disappointed.

He finds Finn in the hallway outside his hospital room, grinning widely and obviously giddy about something. He’s actually quite literally bouncing in place, Poe notices with a sudden surge of fond exasperation – and looking remarkably like an overexcited puppy while doing so. Poe’s barely within earshot when Finn apparently can’t contain himself any longer.

“Rey is coming back!” he bursts out, voice strained with pent-up energy. “General Organa just came by to tell me herself.” His tone is vaguely incredulous, as if he still can’t believe people think him worthy of their undivided attention – and he probably can’t. It takes more than a few weeks to undo a lifetime of being expendable, after all.

At the mention of General Organa Poe reflexively looks over Finn’s shoulder, half-expecting to see her still there in the hospital room, but she’s already gone. When he looks back at Finn, Poe finds himself grinning broadly at the infectious enthusiasm emanating from the other man. “That’s great news, Finn,” he exclaims, pulling him into a brief hug that is returned with only the barest hesitation, Finn getting more and more used to casual physical affection as time wears on. “Any more intel on what this mission was about, anyway?”

Though Poe can’t resist asking, he isn’t particularly surprised when Finn shakes his head in quick denial. General Organa always plays her cards close to her chest, especially these days. As one of her most trusted and longstanding Commanders, Poe is privy to more information than most, but he’s fully aware that he’s still not getting even close to the complete picture – for his personal protection as well as that of the Resistance as a whole.

This particular top-secret mission had been planned behind closed doors and carried out in silence, kept completely under wraps until Rey and Chewbacca had already left the base and the system far behind – Poe suspects that only General Organa and the pilots themselves know what they’ve set out to do, and though he has his own ideas, he keeps them to himself.

Poe wonders fleetingly whether Rey returning after weeks of radio silence means the mission has succeeded, and if he’ll finally find out more now that she is coming back, maybe even get involved somehow – but none of that really matters right now. What matters is Finn, warm and bright and practically vibrating with unrestrained excitement in front of him. What matters is the edge of thinly-veiled anxiety clear in his expressive eyes, ever-present and clearly threatening to consume him.

“You’re coming down with me to welcome her back, right? She’ll kick your ass if you don’t,” Poe says lightly, keeping his tone gentle and calm, treading carefully purely on instinct.

Finn hesitates before replying. When he finally speaks, his voice is uncharacteristically quiet. “You really think she wants me there?” he asks, getting straight to the heart of the matter with a kind of fragile, unassuming bravery that takes Poe’s breath away.

Finn’s expression is open and honest, hiding nothing nor trying to, and the agonized self-loathing in his face hits Poe like a kick to the chest. For a timeless moment, the frenzied recollections of chaos and ruin and fiery death are a physical presence in the hallway with them, and Poe has to force himself not to recoil. Not for the first time, and certainly not for the last, he curses the ruthlessly, thoughtlessly efficient way in which the First Order wrecked Finn’s life.

“Are you kidding me? You’re the only one she’ll want to see!” he says – partly because it’s true, and partly because he knows Finn needs to hear it. The hesitant smile of relief he gets in response is a reward all of its own, the hope flooding Finn’s features bracing like the first brilliant rays of sunlight after a storm.

Poe hadn’t seen much of Rey when she was still on base with them. The messily violent aftermath of Starkiller Base meant he was tied up in strategy meetings and debriefings almost constantly, and that was if he wasn’t off-base and spearheading mission after mission. He knows Rey sat with Finn in the hospital wing, though, whenever she could find the time, holding his hand and talking to his unresponsive form as if she’d never had a more engaging conversational partner. Hell, maybe she hadn’t – after all, the girl grew up abandoned and alone and on _Jakku_ of all planets, not exactly the place-to-be for scintillating discussion.

If he is being honest with himself, though, Poe knows he would have avoided Rey even if he hadn’t been so busy. It wasn’t anything to do with her, not really, just – so soon after Kylo Ren, after the merciless, ice-cold violence of his intrusion, he’d found it… difficult… to be around her. Rey was a fireball, a force of nature, bright and fierce and unstoppable, and the mere magnetic force of her presence flayed him alive. It left him feeling drained, raw, the mangled edges of his Force-sensitivity vulnerable and bleeding and exposed.

Even with his half-involuntary attempts at subterfuge, though, Rey had managed to corner him in the end – asked him to visit Finn more often and refused to say more on the subject, voice pitched low and dark eyes piercing and endlessly sincere. She had looked almost ethereal like that, at the same time delicate and strong, breakable and rock-solid, feral and angelic, impossibly young and old beyond her years. Poe had agreed to her request without thought.

Rey had smiled at him briefly and turned away without further comment, still unused to small-talk in a way that held the middle between rude and quirkily charming. As she’d walked off, an oddly bracing warmth had billowed out behind her like a cloak, immediately and unerringly reaching out for Poe in curiosity and joyous recognition. Poe knows he would have welcomed it, before, relished in it even – but now the gentle brush of heat across his skin had raw panic clawing at his throat, choking him and stealing his breath, lethal and stifling and inescapable.

Poe had hated himself for his reflexive, shaky relief when Rey had eventually left D’Qar. It had tasted too much of a weakness he couldn’t and wouldn’t allow himself – he’d forced it down where it couldn’t be reached.

After that, Poe had made himself get up and move on, the days blurring together in a haze of mission reports and coldly intrusive nightmares and tentative, fragile healing. Weeks had passed, one after another after another, and with them Poe had gotten – better. Not good, not by a long shot, not yet (not ever again, he sometimes thinks to himself, quiet and hopeless and exhausted), but better.

He is better now, and he will cope.

*

The hangar bay is full when Poe arrives, the mere hint of news apparently having spread faster than an outbreak of the Tastiged Flu. General Organa is standing at the front of the crowd and looking stoic and unruffled as always, waiting with her back ramrod straight and her proudly crownless head held high. Though she isn’t speaking or even looking at anyone in particular, her tiny figure radiates leadership and resilient strength, commanding and holding everyone’s attention effortlessly. Without question, the crowd waits with her.   

Poe waves hello to a couple of familiar faces as he finds himself a good place to stand and watch the action, off to the side and as close to his X-Wing as he can get under the circumstances. Within moments of his arrival Finn lightly taps his shoulder before sliding in beside him, apparently having succeeded in convincing his doctor to let him out of her sight for the afternoon. He’s wearing Poe’s jacket and a nervous little smile, fidgeting and restlessly shifting his weight from foot to foot. Poe gives him an encouraging look as he moves to make room, all the while trying to distract himself from the vicelike tension tightening uneasily around his chest.

The traitorous whisper of anxiety roiling in his gut is enough to unsettle him, to distract him and scatter his thoughts in a thousand different directions. Poe is uncomfortably aware of his heart beating a rapid tattoo against his ribs, the rhythm frantic and irregular, of the way his breath comes short and fast. He squares his shoulders and straightens his back, forcing himself to breathe evenly – in through his nose, out through his mouth, again and again. His hands are cold and clammy and unpleasantly numb, quickly growing stiff and useless. It’s getting more difficult by the second to ignore his every instinct shouting at him to leave, to run, to _hide-_

He shouldn’t have come here.

Oh, Poe knows it’s illogical. He’s fully aware that his reaction is ridiculous and overblown. He has faced much worse than this, has snarked and fought and bled his way through _so much worse_ and come out laughing, brash and confident and barely even fazed. There is no threat here, no looming danger or double-edged sword – Rey had never done anything to hurt him, and he knows she never would.

And yet. _And yet._

It is all Poe can do not to turn on his heel and run away – to keep breathing past the tight ball of anxiety in his chest and try not to pass out. He would give just about anything to be in his X-Wing right now, he thinks to himself distractedly as he tries to tamp down on his burgeoning hysteria. There is a heady kind of freedom in being alone above the clouds, in concentrating on the mission and nothing else, racing thoughts fading quietly into the background. That, Poe knows he can do. This, not so much.

When Finn touches his shoulder in tentative concern, the gesture genuine and undemanding, Poe barely manages to suppress his flinch. He shakes his head minutely at Finn’s questioning look and doesn’t meet his eyes, can’t speak past the phantom constricting his throat, can’t quite face the worry and unwavering loyalty he knows he’ll find. Not when he doesn’t deserve it – not when shame and fear and guilt threaten to eat him alive.

In the end, he doesn’t give in to his urge to escape, but it’s a close thing. Embarrassingly, painfully, frighteningly close.

Poe isn’t quite sure what first tips him off. All he knows is that he’s alerted by something moments before a barely-audible sound prompts several other crowd members into looking up as well. A sliver of warmth brushes over and around Poe, light and unobtrusive and oddly familiar, inadvertently making him shiver, and suddenly the ship is there, large and imposing as it seems to materialize inside the hangar bay. The low hum of the hyperdrive powering down reverberates through Poe’s entire body in a way that is somehow both jarring and reassuring. For some reason he can’t quite put his finger on, Poe suddenly feels marginally calmer.

The Millennium Falcon looks as glorious as it ever has – that is to say, battered and bruised and proudly sporting the evidence of several close calls and too-near-misses. Poe looks at the decrepit freighter as it prepares for final touchdown with a deafening whinge, the half-repaired weapons system and extensive damage to the outer hull startlingly clear for everyone to see; it’s hard to believe that this ship once made the Kessel Run in under twelve parsecs.

The ship lands, and Poe can’t help but admire the straightforward skill with which the touchdown is executed. Whatever else she may be, Rey really is one hell of a pilot. He glances over at Finn, smiling fondly at the way he is craning his neck to see better, practically vibrating with pride and excitement.

The hatch opens slowly, the tired groaning of the hinges audible even at a distance. Figures can be seen inside, moving determinedly back and forth, unidentifiable as of yet but undeniably there. It doesn’t take long for Poe to realise there are more than two people on board, and the knowledge makes fresh nerves spark sharp and bright behind his sternum. He takes an involuntary step closer as he keeps watching the ship’s entrance, apprehension building and mixing with wary interest almost in spite of himself.

Rey is the first to disembark the ship, her dark-eyed gaze roving over the assembled crowd with single-minded purpose. She pauses briefly in her search only to embrace General Organa, who seems slightly startled by the forwardness of the gesture but returns it nonetheless, and Poe can’t help but smile at the mutual genuine affection obvious in the short conversation that follows.

It’s when Rey laughs brightly at something that is inaudible from this distance, honest amusement clear in the lines of her young face, stance open and casually relaxed, that Poe suddenly notices. Something about Rey is different, he can sense it, can feel his skin prickle with awareness and the hair on the back of his neck stand up with it. Though she looks the same, she seems to exude a quiet confidence now, a steady self-assurance, a _power_ , that wasn’t there before.

He’s not the only one to realize the change – he can feel the atmosphere swirl around him, charged and fraught with sudden tension. As Rey turns her attention back to searching the crowd, she seems blessedly oblivious to the half-wary, half-reverent way everyone is watching her, unaware of the blazing curiosity and reluctant admiration directed at her from all sides. Finn does notice, though, and Poe can feel him tense and shift restlessly beside him, skittish and clearly uncomfortable with Rey being scrutinised this intensely. Poe shoots him a look out of the corner of his eye, trying for reassuring but probably falling short. His heart is high in his throat and beating fast, fluttering anxiously against its constraints.

It doesn’t really matter in the end – when Rey’s gaze finally lands on Finn, the rest of the world abruptly and completely ceases to matter to either of them. Rey’s whole face lights up in joyous recognition, the unsettling air of detached invincibility falling away between one breath and the next. Without missing a beat she springs fluidly into motion, bounding across the space that separates them in long, purposeful strides. Practically sparkling with energy, flawless and boundless and invigorating, she reaches them within seconds, already talking a mile a minute as she collides squarely with Finn’s broad chest and holds on for dear life. Poe suppresses his smile at Finn’s surprised huff, watching fondly as his friend carefully wraps his arms around Rey’s slender form and hugs her tight, feeling his own wariness subside by increments at their genuine happiness.

“I’m so glad you’re okay, Finn, you have no idea–” Rey throws out, before immediately talking over herself in a stumbling wash of words, “I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there when you woke–” and “you look healthy, are you really–” and “–so afraid I was too late when I–”. She doesn’t pause to take a breath, apparently needing to get everything out in one unrelenting go. Though Finn looks slightly overwhelmed by the barrage of emotions pouring freely forth, unfettered and completely unapologetic, he seems uninclined to let go all the same.

Chewbacca is the next to arrive off the ship, stepping out onto the flight deck with a heavy tread and his shaggy head held high, and despite his imposing figure he remains largely unnoticed by the  assembled crowd. Chewbacca nods once to General Organa in lieu of a salute, solemn and quietly respectful, and Poe sees her return the gesture with a graceful gravitas that immediately betrays her royal upbringing. He watches in silence as an entire conversation passes between the old friends in the blink of an eye, and his heart constricts sharply and painfully inside his chest.

General Organa seems to slump infinitesimally when Chewbacca looks away, her face briefly crumpling in abject grief before promptly smoothing out again. Though her expression shows nothing but professional neutrality now, Poe can see the strain in the stiffness of her spine and the tension in her neck, can feel the way her carefully cultivated mask is starting to crack and slip, and his skin prickles with compassionate discomfort.

Chewbacca himself doesn’t stay to speak to anyone, choosing instead to leave the hangar bay via a side door, and it’s at this moment that Poe remembers with a pang that this was the Wookie’s first mission without General Solo as his co-pilot. The crowd’s collective fixation on Rey is probably a blessing in disguise to him, he thinks to himself sadly, a painful kind of bittersweet relief.

The last person off the ship takes so long to arrive that most people have already left, talking quietly but excitedly amongst themselves, wild guesses and idle speculation on the goal of the Millennium Falcon’s top secret mission flying every which way. Poe stays, though. He’s not quite sure why at first – nothing seems to be happening anymore, after all, the ship standing quiet and dark and seemingly deserted as the hangar bay quickly empties, and the persistent hum of his anxiety is still low in the back of his mind besides. But General Organa is still there, still waiting, and so is Rey, and Finn, and so Poe stands and stays.

The blooming warmth enveloping him like a blanket is sudden and startling yet strangely familiar, and Poe leans into it almost reflexively, allowing it to wrap up and around him, to burrow achingly beneath his skin. For the second it takes for his mind to catch up with him, he feels nothing but comforted by the overwhelming sense of rightness, of belonging, of _home_ spreading through him and within him, bracing and pervasive and utterly true.

That’s when the memories come flooding back, teeth bared and claws sharp and unforgiving, their edges black and wretched and poisonous. Poe physically staggers back with the force of them, feeling distinctly like he just had the wind knocked out of him and too panicked to catch his breath. He catches a glimpse of blue eyes and dirty blond hair as he scrambles back and bolts for the door, nearly frantic with the need to flee, white-hot terror clawing at his throat and fire in his bones. If he notices the flash of surprised recognition in the man’s ageless eyes, he doesn’t stop to look back.

*

He’s lying awake in his bunk when Finn eventually comes to find him, Rey trailing awkwardly but stubbornly in his wake. Poe doesn’t open his eyes to greet them, doesn’t have to look to know they’re there – he can sense them, can feel the pulse of their presence long before they push through the door and into the relative privacy of his tiny room. Finn feels solid and steady, earthy and kind, a thread of fire and steel running quietly underneath; Rey is vibrant and wild, grand and unafraid, a storm contained. Polar opposites, but compatible at the same time.

Poe smiles sadly at that stray thought, not looking up until his bed dips and creaks ominously beneath Finn’s weight. When he finally opens his eyes, he is treated to the priceless sight of Finn and Rey peering back at him with wide-eyed and nearly identical anxious expressions, their genuine worry for him as palpable as their apprehension at having to deal with any emotional outbursts. Poe can’t stop the helpless laughter inexplicably bubbling up inside him at the sight, the tight grip of his anxiety easing somewhat and fondness blooming in his chest as he’s suddenly struck by just how ridiculously _young_ they both are – barely old enough to be out of the Academy, either of them, their lack of experience showing only in moments like these. And though the evidence of their youth is sobering – so young, _far too young_ , to have been through so much, to be facing all this – it is also hilariously disarming. Feeling lightheaded and nearly delirious with the sudden release of built-up tension, all Poe can do is laugh.

Finn and Rey look momentarily thrown by the unexpected turn of events, obviously having expected either anger or tears, not slightly hysterical laughter. They rally quickly though, fighting down their initial surprise like it was never even there, their expressions morphing from acute worry and through a myriad of different and wildly conflicting emotions – shock, heartbreak, confusion, _understanding_ –  to settle eventually on mildly concerned amusement. A slow smile tugs at the corner of Finn’s mouth even while his brow is heavily lined with worry; Rey barely suppresses the upward twitch of her expressive eyebrows as her eyes grow bright with laughter.

When Poe’s calmed down and Rey seems reasonably sure he’s not about to break down on her, she cuts to the chase in the no-nonsense way Poe quietly thinks he might grow to adore. “So,” she says while she bullies Finn into letting her sit on the bed, catching and holding his gaze with earnest eyes, “wanna tell us what that was about back there?”

Poe doesn’t, really. Doesn’t want to talk about it, doesn’t want to explain what he can’t quite understand himself. For a defensive second, he considers shrugging them off, but he quickly thinks better of it. Both of them deserve more than that from him. Besides, it’d be no use – there’s no way in hell they’d just let him be.

“I just–” Poe says, and breaks off, feeling his throat go dry and tight with anxiety. He swallows with difficulty before forcing himself to start again, “I– I was… the heat, it felt like–” he clears his throat, “it brought back some bad– bad memories, I guess,” he finishes lamely, the words tasting like ash as they stumble from his tongue, flat and awkward and unwieldy, not doing any justice to the recollection of white-hot, bone-deep agony tearing into his soul and breaking him unrelentingly apart. His explanation is weak, Poe knows, barely even deserving of the name – but Finn nods in understanding, too matter-of-fact to be anything but genuine, and Rey doesn’t bother to hide her flinch as she grasps Poe’s ankle in silent, clumsy support. So yes, his explanation is weak – but it is all he can offer them, and maybe it’s enough.

“I felt the same, at first,” Rey suddenly says, surprising Poe with the faint trace of pain in her steady voice, “after… well, everything really– Starkiller Base. General Solo–” her voice breaks and she pauses to take a wobbly breath, visibly steeling herself before spitting out the name with venom dripping from her tongue, “Kylo Ren.” It sounds like a curse. It is. “I was… lost. Confused. Angry. Afraid. It hurt to remember, but I couldn’t forget, not for a second, and I–” Rey’s voice is low and soft and heavy with memory, her words halting and heartbreakingly honest, “it was– really, really awful– and the _pain_ –” there’s another brief pause, and Poe realizes he’s holding his breath, a flash of phantom pain ghosting across his skin in sympathy, “it was… unbearable. Unimaginable.”

Rey falls silent after that, and for a while no one speaks. Rey seems lost in thought, a heavy frown etched onto her brow and her dark eyes sorrowful and far away. Finn looks devastated and vaguely nauseated, his ever-watchful gaze flitting worriedly back and forth as if unsure which of them needs his comfort more.

“So what changed?” Poe finally asks, desperate to know, unwilling to allow himself hope. Rey looks down at him questioningly from her position at the foot of his bunk, making him feel oddly exposed and inexplicably nervous. “How did you stop? Feeling this way?” He hates how small he sounds, unsure and vulnerable, his voice hoarse and uneven.

“Nothing changed, Poe,” Rey says, her tone firm but not unkind, “I just… I kept breathing. Just like Finn. Just like you.” Her eyes are clear and very bright, and her smile is sad. “It took time, and distance. And– I guess it helped to talk to Luke– to understand. What I am, and why. What I can do.”

She doesn’t elaborate further, but the quietly respectful way she says the name catches Poe’s attention, a strange kind of awareness starting to buzz right under his skin. “Wait– Luke? Luke _Skywalker_? He’s alive?” Poe asks, awestruck in spite of himself and not bothering to hide it. “He was your mission.” It’s not really a question, and Poe doesn’t need Rey’s nod of confirmation – he can feel the truth of it down to his core, bubbling in his chest and singing in his veins.

For a moment, Poe feels giddy in a way that’s almost childlike. He’s alive. _He’s alive._ Unbelievably, impossibly, after every horrible thing life and the universe threw at him, Luke Skywalker is still here, still breathing – something Poe had never really let himself believe, not even while risking his life chasing after that blasted map. But they found him. The Resistance – his mission – succeeded where both The Empire and The First Order failed, and they found him. _They found him_.

Luke Skywalker is a legend, known throughout the galaxy and beyond, worshipped as much as he is feared. A living god in the eyes of billions, mysterious and dangerous and completely unpredictable. A boy who at only nineteen became the reluctant face of the rebellion, with a famous name and terrifying power, with heavy feet and a heavier heart. The Last Jedi, inexperienced and frightened and alone in this new world but standing up anyway, fighting anyway. A man who was blinded by love for his nephew, who really ought to have known better – who could do nothing but run for his life when his beloved Jedi Academy crashed and burned around him. A man who is loved and despised in equal measure, who has a price on his head and a religion in his name. A man who has been at the heart of wars and had the power to start and to end them, who has wielded that power and found it to be– too much. A man who has loved and lost and lost again, who has run and hidden and refused to be found – until now.

All this – and more – is completely, terrifyingly true. But it’s not what’s at the forefront of Poe’s mind.

In this moment, what’s important is this: Poe has met him before. Not Commander Luke Skywalker, Jedi Master and Divine Saviour of the Galaxy, but ‘just Luke’, the golden-haired pilot boy who knew his parents when they were still alive. The three of them had been friends, Kes and Shara and Luke, young and brave and carefree, laughing and fighting and flying – always, always flying.

The memories are hazy and indistinct like those of early childhood often are, but they are soft and happy and shrouded in light. Though clearly unused to small children and slightly daunted by the prospect of him, Luke had been patient and kind with Poe, kneeling next to him to listen to his warbling stories and play with his toy X-Wing, nodding along and asking questions with a serious expression and earnest eyes. Predictably, little four-year-old Poe had basked in the focused attention with absolute and unadulterated delight. Still young enough not to feel self-conscious in his instant and unconditional adoration, he had followed his cool new friend around for days on end, prattling excitedly all the while.

When Luke had eventually left Yavin Four Poe had been devastated, moping around the house and refusing to even touch his model X-Wing for several days. He hadn’t really paid mind to the unusually bracing warmth permeating him when Luke had been around, sinking into his skin and his muscles and his bones with reassuring heaviness, but Poe still vividly remembers how cold he had felt in the absence of him – gloomy and utterly forlorn, a sharp emptiness lodged firmly under his breastbone along with the pervasive chill.

It hadn’t lasted, of course – children are resilient, and Poe had soon been distracted by other things – but in hindsight, Poe recognizes the sudden overwhelming surge of warmth he experienced in the hangar bay from when he was young and curious and unafraid, rooted in the rich soil of Yavin Four and looking up into kind blue eyes for the first time. It is reassurance, certainty, soft and quiet and all-encompassing, and though the roiling anxiety is still there, a thread of calm starts winding its way steadily around his heart.

Poe resurfaces from his personal reverie to find Rey and Finn grinning and talking over each other with increasing excitement, both gesticulating wildly and enthusiastically. Topic of debate is whether Luke Skywalker _really_ escaped the Death Star through a garbage chute once upon a time, and whether or not a wayward Dianoga _really_ came close to dragging the legendary Last Jedi to an early and rather unfortunate grave on that occasion – both seem to have an awful lot to say on the subject, especially considering neither of them were even alive at the time.

Though they pay him no direct attention, both Finn and Rey still sit angled toward him, and Poe feels another unexpectedly sharp surge of grateful affection as he realizes what they’re doing – giving him space, room to process and to breathe, not excluding him but not expecting him to contribute either. Somehow, it’s exactly what he needs.

The debate eventually dies down, and Finn looks over at him with a tentative smile, a wordless question obvious in his dark eyes. Poe nods once and replies in kind, his smile wobbly and too brittle at the edges but genuine all the same, and the look of open relief on Finn’s face is brilliant like the rising sun. Rey hums once, low and thoughtful, and squeezes his knee in silent comradery. For one drawn-out, crystalline moment in time, everything is perfectly still.

Poe finally, finally exhales.

The peaceful moment breaks when Rey suddenly and fluidly jumps up off the bunk, everything about her radiating youthfulness and energy. “I’m starving,” she announces gravely into the tiny room, with a level of gravitas usually reserved for strategy meetings or stuffy military ceremonies, “you guys up for some food?” Poe can’t help his snort at her genuine excitement at the prospect of blandly terrible mess hall food, and the corner of Rey’s mouth lifts in a pleased smirk as she offers him her hand. He takes it without hesitation.

*

Poe returns to his room alone, having taken his leave from Rey and Finn after their dinner in the mess. After shedding his jacket and kicking off his boots at the door, he sits down on the edge of his bunk with a heavy thud. Resting his head in his hands, he blows out a long breath, trying to relax the wiry cords of tension in his neck and upper torso.

He hasn’t seen Luke Skywalker again since his arrival at the Resistance base, but the instinctive awareness of his presence still lingers, a blanket of steady warmth having settled persistently but unobtrusively around Poe’s shoulders. It feels– not unpleasant, exactly, not intrusive or aggressive, but strange all the same. The sensation is oddly similar to the steady pulse-and-pull Poe usually feels when piloting, the same kind of calm assurance, and the unfamiliar familiarity of it sets his teeth on edge.

Poe hasn’t slept uninterrupted since the Finalizer – has fought through night after night of insomnia and nightmares and flashbacks so vivid they should have left scars, has screamed himself awake and cried himself to sleep more times than he can count, has avoided and sidestepped and ignored every offer of help, every plea and every order to rest with a smile on his face and his hands curled tightly into fists.

After everything that has happened today, after reliving his worst memories and facing his worst fears, Poe is already bracing himself for the dreams. He feels raw, untethered, fundamentally vulnerable in a way he can’t run from, can’t deny, turned inside out and left wide open.

When he settles down for the night and finally closes his aching eyes, it’s in weary acceptance of another endless night of breathless, ruthless, vicious reliving.

*

That night, for the first time, the dreams don’t come.

*

Poe wakes up with artificial army base light streaming in through his one tiny window, feeling comfortably warm and more rested than he has in weeks. Disorientation sweeps over him in a single dizzying wave as he rolls on his back and blinks sleepily up at the ceiling, trying to shake off the last clinging vestiges of the best sleep he’s had in ages.

He honestly can’t remember the last time he’s woken up feeling this peaceful – the sensation is oddly foreign to him, like a distant memory or a half-remembered dream, a soap bubble on the verge of bursting. It almost doesn’t seem to fit him anymore, not the way it used to – he has turned from child to soldier to outlaw now, from blessedly whole to battered to subtly broken, has exchanged golden-edged idealism and wide-eyed innocence for vigilance, for wariness, for scars and grit and battle armour.

It should have been disconcerting, this new feeling of uncomplicated quiet, of spreading calm, except for the way it feels– normal, really. Comfortable.

Still only half-awake, Poe glances at the clock above his door mostly out of habit – and promptly bolts upright with his heart lurching up in his throat, abruptly and absurdly convinced that General Organa herself is about to descend on him in fury for sleeping through a mission briefing or forgetting an important meeting or… something. It’s _late_. Like, proper late, approaching-lunchtime late, and good _grief_ , how is that even _possible_ , Poe never oversleeps anymore, has been military long enough to wake up at the slightest provocation– how did he manage to sleep through the entire morning?

He rolls out of bed and shrugs on his clothes in under a minute, mild panic driving him through his sleepy haze and straight into efficiency. He’s desperately trying to fix the wildly unruly tangle of his hair when he finally notices the note sticking out from under his door.

 _Commander-_  
_You may be our best pilot, but if I see your face in the mission centre today_  
_I will not hesitate to demote you. Get some rest. Don’t make me make it an order._

There’s no name or other signifier anywhere on the deliberately nondescript card, but the casually imperious tone of the message makes it exceedingly clear who sent it. Poe blows out an incredulous breath, raking a hand through his hair absentmindedly as he contemplates the message. A twinge of amusement mixes with faint anxiety at the prospect of a whole day off, something he hasn’t dared to allow himself since the Finalizer. The free hours feel endless as they stretch and expand before him.

Eventually though, the luxurious reality of a clear schedule truly dawns on him – after all, what was already considered a treasured rarity in the Fleet is even more so with the Resistance, which is so small it often needs every single ounce of available firepower just to stay alive. Looking at it that way, it would be even more of a monumental shame to waste his day panicking over nothing, Poe tries to convince himself as he makes a valiant effort to force down the insistent thread of dread unfurling in his gut. He grabs his jacket and heads out with determination in his step, smiling through the tension rising in his throat as BB-8 trails out behind him, chirping happily and gathering speed in an effort to keep up.

For a while Poe just walks with no clear destination in mind, nodding and smiling at everyone he passes and stopping every few minutes to exchange superficial pleasantries. It feels good to stretch his legs – it helps focus his nervous energy into something resembling usefulness, and it also provides a nice distraction from the chorus of anxious voices clamouring for attention inside his head.

He doesn’t realize where he’s headed until he’s already there, the organized chaos of the bustling hangar bay spreading out before him. BB-8 makes an inquisitive beeping sound before zooming right past him and attaching itself to the back of the closest plane with commendable enthusiasm. Poe for his part just smiles and reaches out a hand, smoothing it across the titanium hull of his X-Wing with something very close to reverence. Though he can’t rationally explain it, he feels immediately calmer here – more balanced, somehow, more sane and in control. More like himself.

Without further ado, Poe rolls up his sleeves and gets to work.

It’s good to be home.

*

It’s another day before they finally officially run into each other, and though their meeting may seem coincidental, Poe strongly suspects that it’s entirely General Organa’s doing. He respects his general more than anyone in the galaxy, would lay down his life for her no questions asked, but her tendency to stick her nose where it doesn’t belong is as persistent as it is infuriating.

Poe is turning a corner into the next nondescript base hallway, on his way back from the tense energy and laser focus of the mission centre at peak capacity, when he is intercepted. He barely has time to notice the sudden surge of heat before he is hailed.

“Commander, a word!” The voice is sharp and commanding and entirely familiar, and Poe turns around without a second thought, his compliance automatic and immediate. When he sees who are walking steadily up to him, though, he feels his heartrate spike and his mouth go dry.

“I trust you are rested, Commander?” General Organa asks, looking him up and down as if scanning him for injuries. Apparently satisfied with the results of her critical inspection, she nods to herself and looks up at him expectantly, awaiting his reply. 

Poe doesn’t know what to say. He is distracted by the heat swirling in intricate patterns across his skin and in his very bones, by the blood rushing in his ears and the thunderous pounding of his heart. He swallows once against the sudden dryness of his throat. “Um–” he finally manages, “I… am?” It sounds like a question, and the smile the general gives him in response really is more of a smirk. For some reason, Poe gets the distinct impression she is enjoying herself.

General Organa gestures imperiously to her silent companion, who obediently – if somewhat dramatically – lowers his hood to reveal blonde hair heavily streaked with grey. “Have you met my brother yet, Commander?” General Organa asks, her tone carefully nonchalant but coloured with a hint of what on anyone else Poe could have sworn was mischief.

For an endless moment, Poe just stares, quietly mesmerized by the soft warmth playing fluently and curiously across his skin and through his veins. The dark maelstrom of memories is still there like it was before, still rears its ugly head and _bites_ , easily provoked by the half-familiar sensation of liquid heat rushing over him, vast and dangerous and mixing with semi-remembered flashes of black-tipped knives and grief and searing pain – but it is muted somehow, no longer suffocating or seeming quite so insurmountable.

Poe almost manages not to start at the hand the man extends toward him, only remembering his manners just in time to reach out and grasp it. The man’s hand is warm and dry in his own, his grip strong and sure, and a heady rush of molten-gold heat washes over him at the contact. Poe doesn’t shiver with the intensity of it, but it’s a close thing. If the man notices, he doesn’t show it.

“Poe, right?” Luke Skywalker says, and the sound of his voice is unexpected, earthy and kind and full of light and life. “Poe Dameron?” At Poe’s nod, he smiles an honest smile, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly and the clear blue of his eyes lighting up. Poe resolutely concentrates on what he is saying instead of the way his stomach swoops at the sight. “I don’t know if you remember, but I was friends with your parents when you were young.”

He doesn’t mention the incident in the hangar bay, seems to have taken it in stride, and Poe is silently grateful.

“I remember,” he answers, trying to appear about ten times more calm and collected than he actually feels and definitely failing, “We played with my toys.” He winces as soon as the words are out – and is he imagining things or did General Organa just snort? Poe is getting the distinct impression that his commanding officer is enjoying herself for reasons decidedly outside the realm of professionalism, and he feels almost dizzy with the sensation of this meeting spiralling further and further out of his control. Poe feels just as strangely lost as he has for weeks – except for the first time in a while, the feeling is not entirely unpleasant.

Luke breathes out a soft laugh as he nods, the twinkle in his eyes betraying his amusement. “We did, that’s right,” he muses fondly, his voice soft as if speaking only to himself, followed quickly by, “Do you still have that X-Wing model?” He sounds inappropriately enthusiastic about it, especially considering the circumstances, and Poe can see General Organa rolling her eyes beside him.

“Luke–” she starts warningly, something resigned and long-suffering clear in her voice. On anyone else, it might have worked as the red flag it is intended to be, but her brother just waves her off with the unconcerned air of someone long used to both the absolute sincerity of her threats and the size of her heart. “I know, I know, now is not the time,” he says airily, followed by a too-innocent, “Why don’t you just ask the Commander here what you came here to ask him, then?”

There’s nothing special about the offhand question, objectively speaking, but something about it catches at Poe’s mind. There’s something there, something underneath left purposefully unsaid – Poe can taste the sudden tension heavy in the air, can feel the way the coiling warmth on his skin responds, flaring and flickering as if in annoyance, or disapproval.

“Dameron–” General Organa says, clearly unhappy about being managed as she throws another warning look in the direction of her brother, her tone abruptly business-like, “I need you in the field. Recon mission. You up for it?” She glances meaningfully at her brother again before resolutely squaring her jaw and adding a curt but sincere, “Trust that I wouldn’t ask this of you right now if there was anyone else who could do it.”

Poe can’t help his reflexive response to the command in her tone, can feel himself straightening up, squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin. He catches General Organa’s approving nod out of the corner of his eye, and it makes resolve harden into conviction in his gut. His recklessly unwavering loyalty to this woman has been second nature longer than he cares to remember, etched into the lines of his palms and the very depths of his soul. There is no decision to be made, not really; not for him.

Poe nods once, slow and thoughtful, already feeling his focus draw tight around himself like a cloak of protection, like a prayer. He feels more than sees Luke Skywalker fidget in discomfort, feels the prickle of someone else’s anxiety flit across his skin, familiar yet at the same time oddly foreign, and he doesn’t understand – but there is nothing to be done. He meets his general’s gaze without flinching, determinedly unafraid, his voice mercifully steady when he says the only thing he can say.

“When do I leave?”

*

“Black Leader, check in.”

The voice over the radio system is tinny and faint, the short transmission heavily distorted by static. Poe frowns, briefly struggling with the basic receiver settings on his comm before giving it up as a lost cause and flipping the switch to respond.

“Command, this is Black Leader. Position unchanged. No threats identified so far. Nothing to report, unfortunately.”

“Confirm. Thank you, Commander. Next check-in scheduled in thirty.”

The line goes silent; empty static once again fills the air. Poe sighs heavily into the silence, leaning back as far as the cramped space of the cockpit will allow him as he tries to shake the annoyingly persistent tingles of electricity from his legs. BB-8 is making intermittent buzzing sounds somewhere behind him, busily analysing and recalibrating whatever transmission signals it is receiving. Poe can’t imagine there being anything even remotely interesting among the general drivel, though – there hasn’t been all day.

His mission has taken him all the way out to the Avenelle system, home to a single planet bearing the same name. The planet normally serves as a luxurious but otherwise unremarkable watering hole for traders and travellers along the Lesser Lantillian Route, but lately intercepted First Order chatter about the place has increased rather exponentially. It wasn’t long before the interest of the Resistance was piqued – and now here they are.

Or rather, here Poe is, alone with BB-8 and his thoughts, drifting aimlessly through the thick nebula surrounding Avenelle while picking his careful way through cluster after cluster of space rubble. He’s been scanning incoming and outgoing transmission signals continuously for the last thirteen hours, fruitlessly trying to pick up on anything suspicious or remotely relevant. So far, none of the comm chatter he’s intercepted seems strange or out of place or even distantly interesting. And so Poe is, for lack of a better description, bored out of his mind.

Before he became a pilot, Poe never would have guessed how integral boredom is to military life. Even in all-out war, active battle situations and direct confrontations with enemy forces are relatively rare. Most missions consist of surveillance, of watchful waiting and careful observing, calmly and unobtrusively gathering invaluable intelligence. Life as a fighter pilot involves a lot of forced downtime interspersed with sudden spikes of frenzied, life-or-death activity. The balance shifts constantly between tension and relaxation; fighting and hiding; confrontation and deflection.

Poe is torn violently from the distraction of his meandering thoughts by BB-8 making a sudden shrill sound of alarm behind him, rattling off a series of coordinates at breakneck speed and whirring loudly in acute distress. With his heart hammering in his chest and the blood rushing deafeningly in his ears, Poe scans his surroundings for possible threats, straining his eyes to see anything out of the ordinary.

For a long time, absolutely nothing happens. Poe shakily reminds himself to breathe, swallowing hard against a dry throat. His hands are cold and white with strain, tight and stiff on the controls. The tension rises with every second that passes – the silence is thick with it, sticky and almost unbearable.

He’s on the verge of asking BB-8 what the fuss was all about when a TIE Fighter unexpectedly looms out of the deep blackness of space, close range and getting closer, quickening his pulse and stealing his breath. To make matters infinitely worse, several other Fighters follow silently in the wake of the first, sleek and deathly efficient. Poe curses as he forces his X-Wing into an evasive manoeuvre, dropping abruptly to avoid a collision and diving behind a large formation of space rubble to keep out of sight.

He knows the TIE Fighters must have seen him, knows from experience exactly how fast they are, knows he is vastly outnumbered – knows that there is no way he survives this encounter if they decide to engage. Which they will. Any second now.

Poe fumbles for the right button on his radio with a hand that barely shakes. He starts speaking as soon as he hears the connection take hold.

“Command, this is Black Leader. Threat identified. Several First Order TIE Fighters localized at current location – transmitting coordinates now,” He hits another button, hastily cross-checking BB-8’s neatly kept logs before adding, “No transmission signals intercepted on any channel. Radio silence from their side. Please advise.”

The static on the comm system gets steadily worse as he waits for a response from base, the connection wavering and even dropping intermittently. When the reply comes through, the voice is unfamiliar and sharp with concern.

“Confirm, Black Leader. Coordinates received. Are you under attack?”

“I don’t–” Poe falls silent as he watches the TIE Fighters drift by without acknowledging him, soundless and dangerous, close enough to see the pilots inside their cockpits– “I– they’ve seen me, they must have, but– they’re not engaging.” He can hear the flat disbelief in his own voice, doesn’t bother hiding it, just continues speaking, “They seem to be heading for the planet. Permission to follow?”

The static surges up even more after that, crackling sharply and rendering the incoming response nearly inaudible.

“Denied. You have been compromised, and you have no back-up. Return to base immediately.”   

Poe sighs heavily, strangely torn between relief and disappointment at the order. He watches the small fleet of TIE Fighters disappear into the planet’s atmosphere with something akin to wonder, unable to quite believe what just happened. He shakes himself out of his haze in time to reply.

“Understood. Returning to base now. Black Leader out.”

Poe locks in the coordinates of the Resistance base to the sound of BB-8 whirring softly and rather indignantly behind him, clearly searching feverishly for any missed transmission signals. He laughs softly and disbelievingly to himself as he makes the jump to hyperspace with the sweat still cooling on his back. He’s still smiling as he leaves the planet and the system and the sector behind, as ancient starlight morphs into ribbons around him.

Sometimes, Poe really can’t believe his luck. It’s about time he remembered that.

*

Their next meeting takes place not long after Poe gets back from his rather unsuccessful mission, and unfortunately for him, it starts out just as embarrassing as the first. This had better not become a habit.

He’s lying on his back on the floor of his cockpit trying to find the cause for the faulty radio connection when he is interrupted.

“Nice plane you have there,” the sudden voice is warm with genuine appreciation, coming from somewhere above him and startling him straight into an upright position. He hits his head painfully on the edge of his dashboard on the way up; he’s halfway through a string of increasingly colourful curses when the influx of glowing warmth finally registers and reminds him that he’s not alone. He looks up to see Luke Skywalker regarding him in amusement, blue eyes glittering bright with suppressed mirth. 

“Uh– thanks,” Poe manages, fumbling briefly over the proper address before settling on an awkward nod and a somewhat hesitant, “…Commander Skywalker?”

“Just Luke, please,” Commander Skywalker – _Luke_ – replies in a self-deprecating tone, wincing slightly at the overly formal address, “I’m not military, and I haven’t felt like a proper Commander a day in my life. Unlike you, I gather – Commander Dameron, is it? That’s impressive.”

Poe laughs aloud at that, unaccountably pleased when Luke smiles genuinely in response. “If you want me to call you Luke, I’m definitely going to have to insist on Poe,” he says matter-of-factly, his voice warm and bright with amusement, before nodding towards his instrument panel and asking, “So when’s the last time you flew one of these?”

“Too long ago,” Luke replies absently, reaching out toward the outer hull of the plane with obvious reverence, and the soft honesty in his voice makes something small and apprehensive inside Poe finally shift back into place. His mind made up, he jumps out from his cockpit and onto the hangar floor, coming to stand next to Luke.

“Well, if you ever want to take her out…” he offers easily, gesturing at his X-Wing with a hand that he belatedly realizes is oily and covered in grime. He grins broadly at Luke’s acutely incredulous expression, can’t resist throwing in a rakish wink as he leans back against his plane in a deliberately casual pose – is silently delighted when Luke flushes a dusty pink in response. _Interesting._

Poe can see the undisguised longing in Luke’s eyes as he looks at the grounded plane, can almost taste his temptation and his tentative excitement – but there’s something else there, too, heavy and overpowering, buried deep yet undeniably present; a sense of hesitancy, of uncertainty, reluctance almost. For some reason Poe can’t discern, Luke’s conflicted – and it’s holding him back.

“From the stories, I understand you’re an exceptional pilot,” Poe says, keeping his tone light and encouraging, patting the metal frame of his X-Wing affectionately as he continues, “so I trust she’d be in good hands.”

“You’re one to talk,” Luke replies, smiling wryly and ducking his head as if embarrassed by the praise, the colour still high in his cheeks, “Leia told me– who taught you to fly TIE Fighters?” It’s an obvious diversion tactic – Luke is trying to steer the conversation away from himself without having to consider Poe’s offer, even though he’s clearly tempted. He doesn’t seem to realize his subject of choice might be difficult for Poe, just keeps gazing at the X-Wing with nearly palpable adoration, seemingly unable to tear his eyes away completely. It helps, somehow. Instead of feeling unsettled by the unexpected reminder of the Finalizer, Poe finds himself oddly charmed by Luke’s clumsiness in bringing up the subject. It’s refreshing – sharply, beautifully wholesome.

For a moment, Poe is torn. On the one hand, he wants to answer the question honestly – Luke’s genuine interest is flattering, and it’s something he instinctively relates to. There aren’t many on base who can (or want to, quite frankly) match Poe’s level of enthusiasm when it comes to anything related to flying – in fact, Luke might well be the first. The prospect is undeniably exciting.

On the other hand, he suddenly really, _really_ wants to see Luke flush that beautiful pink again – and he has the sneaking suspicion he knows exactly how to bring it out.

The other hand wins. Poe is almost – but not quite – ashamed of himself.

“I can fly anything,” he just says, brash and confident, as if posing a simple statement of fact – but he can feel the smirk on his face as he says it, the cockiness in the quirk of his eyebrow, sharp and familiar. Luke looks up inquiringly, amused and faintly surprised by his tone. He catches Poe’s gaze but doesn’t hold it for long before his clear blue eyes dart away again – suddenly he seems flustered, almost shy, and the soft flush rises prettily in his cheeks. The warmth surrounding him flickers and flares restlessly in response; for some reason that just makes Poe grin harder.

The moment lasts, humming low with silvery tension, then breaks – rather spectacularly, at that – when Luke unexpectedly turns it on its head. Poe barely has time to notice the mischievous resolve forming in Luke’s eyes, or register the infinitesimal shift of his jaw, before it’s already too late.

Luke smiles and gives an almost imperceptible nod before taking a deliberate step closer, well into his personal space – and Poe abruptly loses his train of thought, his mind screeching to a resounding halt. He blinks once and swallows hard, feeling wrong-footed and acutely unprepared for the overwhelming reality of Luke this close, regardless of his bravado earlier. It’s fierce and exhilarating and unbearably bright, like the first golden glimpse of dawn after fighting through the night, and Poe feels full to bursting with it. Something tingly and hot and alive is settling under his skin, spreading like wildfire and setting him silently aflame – and this time, he suspects it’s got nothing at all to do with The Force. Oh boy.  

“I’ll take you up on that offer, I think,” Luke muses, absently patting the side of the plane, and it takes Poe a moment of blank staring to catch up. His X-Wing. Of course. Not– _definitely not_ anything else his overheated brain might have just come up with. _Get a grip, Dameron._

Poe takes an involuntary step back, creating some distance as he tries valiantly to clear his head. Luke’s benevolent amusement curls around him like an embrace, warm and playful, even as the man himself is turning away.

“See you around, Poe,” Luke calls back over his shoulder, deliberately casual, not waiting for a reply as he strides away – but from where he’s standing, still struggling to understand exactly when the tables had turned on him, Poe catches the faintest edge of a smirk.

_Oh, this will not stand._

*

Weeks go by, and Luke is quietly and without fuss embedded into Resistance life – which turns out to be surprisingly easy. Luke’s calm, unassuming demeanour doesn’t draw unwarranted attention and quickly enables most people to move past their initial hero worship and half-fearful awe – and if anyone on base still looks at him askance from time to time, he doesn’t pay it any mind. It helps that Rey swaggers in periodically and treats him with her unique brand of brazen irreverence, and that Finn is obviously relaxed and comfortable in his presence. It normalizes him, humanizes him, in the face of his untouchable reputation.

As for Poe, he finds himself falling into a rhythm with Luke that feels suspiciously like friendship. At first they mainly talk about flying, but they soon branch out into a wide range of other topics, from pod-racing to farm life to astromech droid technology. And beyond that, there’s history there, too – Luke knew Poe’s parents when they were still alive, and the three of them were friends for a significant part of Poe’s youth. It’s good to reminisce with someone else who cares – someone who _knows_.

Running underneath their every interaction is a steady undercurrent of mutual attraction, vibrant and earthy and strong. Poe is aware of it at all times – the tension thrumming in his veins whispers like a promise, or a spell, heady and exciting – but it is never acknowledged by either of them. Luke seems carefully determined to keep some distance between them, emotional as well as physical – and Poe respects that. Besides– it’s not worth the risk to stir everything up and disturb their tentative equilibrium.

He kind of wants to, though – and that realisation in itself is surprising.

Poe has never in his life felt inclined to pursue a romantic relationship of any kind. It’s not for lack of offers or opportunity – Poe wouldn’t consider himself arrogant, but he knows he’s attractive, and he can be what a gorgeously feisty Corellian fighter pilot once described as _roguishly charming_. He likes the game, too – the intoxicating thrill of the chase, the flirting and the teasing, the kissing, the playful touches and the not-so-playful ones, the glorious freedom and trembling joy in giving pleasure and receiving in return. And– well, again, Poe doesn’t like to brag, but he’s been told he’s quite talented in this particular area. As such, he’s never had trouble finding someone to share his drink or his night or his bed with – and it has always been beautifully uncomplicated, simply and wholeheartedly _fun_ , for all parties involved.

Nothing ever got serious, nor did he want it to – no strings, no complications, after all. In his current line of work especially, the trouble and the potential emotional compromise have always been more than reason enough not to risk his heart. Poe has chosen this life for himself with absolute conviction, chooses again every single day; it’s a good life, a meaningful life, if not an easy one; he chooses to enjoy it as much as he can with as few worries as possible. Love has never really _fit._

There’s something here, though, between the two of them – something solid and real and brimming with heat, something inexplicable and sharp that tugs at Poe’s core. It’s far stronger than he is used to and that scares him, _terrifies_ him – but not enough to stay away. He doesn’t even understand it himself, not at all, not really; but when Luke takes his X-Wing out one day, and when he returns and climbs out of the cockpit looking bright-eyed and excited and ten years younger with radiant happiness, Poe is struck by the sudden overwhelming urge to kiss him and not stop. It’s crazy and impulsive and irrational – not to mention counterproductive and possibly dangerous, so he refrains – but it’s the first time Poe realizes this might be on an entirely different scale than anything he’s ever experienced before.  

It’s definitely not the last time, either.

*

“I’m thinking about growing my beard again,” Luke informs him conversationally one morning, peering at him over the rim of his steaming cup of hot chocolate (and the fact that the most powerful Jedi knight of all time has an inexplicable fondness for hot chocolate will never fail to amuse Poe), “I had a beard when Rey found me, actually. I liked it – it was nice.”

Poe just stares at him dubiously, trying to visualize it but coming up with nothing that isn’t deeply, appallingly unattractive. Catching his sceptical expression, Luke adds rather defensively, “I thought it looked quite distinguished.” The statement comes out several shades closer to a whine than he probably intended, and Poe snorts rather indelicately.

“What happened to it?” He asks, already feeling the delighted grin spreading across his face when Luke fidgets uncomfortably and studiously avoids his gaze. Luke just frowns heavily into his cup for a moment, primly sipping his drink before finally replying with a reluctant and rather stiff, “Rey made me shave it off.” He sounds so hilariously disgruntled about it that Poe suddenly can’t help but bark out a laugh, loud and joyful and unrestrained.

He almost manages not to shiver when Luke’s fond exasperation at his reaction washes over him like a cresting wave of liquid heat, the sensation still foreign and wholly overwhelming. He’s sure the other man notices his involuntary response, but he doesn’t mention it, just smiles serenely and looks him square in the eyes as he raises his cup to his lips. Poe silently berates himself for the hot flash of desire rushing down his spine at the sight, and fights to keep his expression impassive. Judging from the knowing twinkle in Luke’s eyes, he doesn’t quite succeed.  

*

Poe returns from a gruelling mission to find Rey and Finn stretched out on opposite sides of his bunk; Rey is munching on something crunchy and violently orange while Finn appears fast asleep, one of Poe’s books on aviation lying forgotten on the bed next to his head.

“There you are!” Rey says cheerfully, sitting up and nudging Finn awake with a sharp elbow to the side, “We’ve been waiting for you.” Finn sits as well, blinking owlishly.

Poe is absolutely exhausted, not to mention disoriented from the chaos of the close-range fight, the fiery flares of burning fighter planes burnt cruelly and inescapably onto his retinas – he is having some trouble processing the sudden transition into normalcy, so he says nothing at all, just nods once and sits down heavily in his only chair, his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. Behind him, BB-8 rolls onto its charging station and goes into low power mode, humming quietly.

Rey shrugs one shoulder, unbothered by his silence as she offers him one of her snacks. “You want to talk about it?” she asks casually, mild concern mixing with a conscious distance that Poe is wordlessly grateful for. He feels raw right now, vulnerable, and he knows Rey senses it; her particular brand of warmth is reaching out to him, curling around him, curious yet ever careful, comforting and clean – like wrapping yourself in a blanket at a campfire on a frosty night, surrounded by the smell of wood smoke and fresh mountain air. 

Rey’s signature is not like Luke’s, it’s less overwhelming, less _hot_ , but it’s still somehow familiar, and Poe feels the tension in his shoulders dissipate as he slowly begins to unwind. He glances at Rey and Finn sitting side by side on his bed and tries to explain. “Blue Squadron lost two pilots in that attack run today – hell, we almost lost Snap, too,” he runs a hand through his hair, lost and half-despondent, searching for the words and coming up empty, “I just– I felt so fucking _useless_ , you know– seeing it happen and not being able to do a blasted _thing_ to stop it– it’s–” he blows out a frustrated breath as he scrubs an aching hand over his face.

He doesn’t really expect a reply, but Finn gives him one anyway, his dark voice low and almost contemplative, “In the First Order, you’re not supposed to help others when they fall. That’s one of the first things they teach you, actually.” He catches their expressions and gives a tiny shrug, too casual, too used to horrible things, “It’s just not worth it to them,” he adds, as if that somehow explains anything – maybe, horrifically, it does. Poe feels his heart throb painfully inside his chest, his own misery momentarily forgotten – it almost hurts to breathe for a while, in the face of this.

“Oh, _Finn–_ ” he breathes, stunned, horrified beyond belief. He means to get up, to do _something_ , but Rey beats him to it, half-turning and throwing her arms around Finn, fiercely protective and almost angry with it. “You’re _never_ going back to that, _never_ , Finn, you hear me? I _promise_.” Though her eyes are bright with tears, her voice is steel, and the air around her crackles with sudden fire, harsh and wild and uncontained. Finn seems genuinely surprised by the force of her reaction, like her concern for him is somehow unexpected – but he leans into her side all the same, shaking his head as he mutters, more to himself than to anyone else, “I could never do it… Probably one of the reasons I sucked so much at being a Stormtrooper.” And Rey just snorts and pulls him close, wiping furiously at her eyes as she lets out a laugh, ragged and relieved.

There is silence for a while, everyone left to their thoughts. Rey eventually lets go of Finn, squeezing his arm affectionately before hauling off and punching him squarely on the bicep, obviously in need of releasing some of the restless energy still simmering under the surface. Finn grunts in faint surprise, sitting up as he rubs at his arm almost absently – but when he looks at Rey and catches the brittle fierceness in her expression, he holds her gaze and smiles, wide and soft and happy.

When Rey finally glances over at Poe, she looks unsure and mildly apprehensive, which is very unlike her – which in turn makes all the alarm bells in Poe’s head go off loudly and simultaneously. “Hey, Poe?” Rey asks, and her deliberate airiness only works to further strengthen his dire suspicions, “We actually came by here to ask you something.” There’s a brief hesitation before she continues, “It’s about Luke.”

Poe really doesn’t know why in the universe he’s suddenly blushing like a teen, but – well, apparently that’s a thing he does now. Terrific. It’s a good thing Jess isn’t here – she would laugh until she cried, then mock him gleefully and relentlessly until the end of time. Whereas present company will probably only hold this over his head for the foreseeable future. He hopes.

“What about him?” Poe asks, attempting to sound appropriately casual and definitely failing. Rey looks at him knowingly, something like amusement in the quirk of her eyebrow, and a flutter of her silvery warmth shimmers across his skin. Next to Rey, Finn doesn’t even bother to hide his snort. Poe levels a glare in his direction, but Finn just shrugs and grins at him, friendly yet unrepentant.

“You… feel him, right? Somehow? How does that work?” Rey asks, and Poe abruptly starts choking on air, startled by her question as much as her forwardness in asking, her almost business-like tone. Finn leans forward on the bed, watching him intently, his dark eyes wide and alive with interest.

This isn’t a topic Poe ever really discusses, with anyone – it feels oddly private, vulnerable in a way he is wholly unprepared for. For some reason, hearing the subject brought up this casually raises an instinctive, half-defined sense of defensiveness in him. Still, these are his friends – Poe knows he can trust them with this.

“I don’t know, exactly,” he starts hesitantly, feeling his ears grow hot with inexplicable embarrassment. Rey doesn’t say anything, just smiles at him encouragingly, so Poe continues, “I’ve always been a little Force-sensitive. Not enough to _do anything_ with it,” he clarifies when Rey and Finn both gape at him, caught somewhere between surprise and alarm, “but enough to always be… a bit luckier than most, I guess. As for Luke – I can sense when he’s around, like his presence, or his energy – something like that. I can sense you too, Rey, and the general – and _Ben_ –” he swallows heavily around the name, and both Rey and Finn flinch– “but Luke is the strongest for me. I don’t know why.”

Rey nods, looking serious and mildly intrigued. “I can feel it in Luke, too,” she says slowly, sounding thoughtful, “He’s… different, when he’s around you.”

Poe doesn’t veer up at that, but it’s a close thing. “Different how?” he asks, and hopes he doesn’t sound as breathless as he suddenly feels. His heart is beating like a tiny drum against his ribs.

Rey frowns as she thinks through her answer. “Like he’s… reaching, or something? It’s kind of hard to explain.”

Poe is about to reply when he’s interrupted by Finn, who coughs loudly and violently before abruptly turning to Rey to whisper in her ear with urgency – Rey’s eyes widen more with every word, and she makes several enthusiastic but ultimately unhelpful noises as she listens, a soft pink flush creeping into her cheeks. When Finn is done, Rey whispers something back – it looks like an insult, but Finn just snorts and nods in agreement, rolling his eyes. Somehow, Poe knows he should probably be offended.  

Rey sits back on the bed and crosses her arms over her chest, grinning at Poe like the cat that got the cream; Finn is also smiling broadly, but there’s an uncomfortably knowing edge to his expression. Their joint satisfaction is both mystifying and highly unsettling, and Poe has the sinking feeling that he’s missing something important.

He wants to ask for clarification, but Rey stops him before he so much as opens his mouth. “This is something you need to find out for yourself,” she says grandly, waving her hand at him with vigour, obviously aiming for stern and mysterious but unable to quite hide the mischievous sparkle in her eyes. She looks unbearably smug about whatever she’s just found out, but with an undertone of badly contained excitement that makes Poe very nervous.

Poe stares at Rey intently, trying to decipher her meaning, but it’s like she’s drawn up a curtain around herself; he can still sense her, but she’s blurred somehow, indistinct, like stained glass – transparent yet impenetrable.

He turns his attention to Finn next, but has no luck on that front either – Finn just gives him a smile and shakes his head, effectively cutting off any pleas he might have made. “Sorry mate,” he says, and he at least has the good grace to actually sound vaguely apologetic, bless him, “I’m with Rey on this one.” Poe sighs quietly to himself, unsurprised. Fucking figures.

Rey and Finn refuse to explain themselves all night, unconvincingly playing at innocence while beaming at him whenever they think he’s not paying attention. While their behaviour is undeniably strange, their moods don’t indicate anything seriously amiss, so Poe eventually tamps down on his reflexive worry and forces himself to relax, resigning himself to not knowing – at least for now.

“Fine,” he says dramatically, stealing Rey’s snacks in revenge and ignoring her indignant squawk, “ _don’t_ tell me then – see if I care.” He tosses several of the orange candies into his mouth at once – they’re chewy and sweet-tasting and slightly dusty, really nothing special – that is, not until Poe swallows and the aftertaste hits him like a freight train, burning like fire all the way down. His eyes immediately start to water and he coughs, momentarily struggling for breath.

Rey laughs heartily at his reaction, but she gets up to pound his back all the same. “Aren’t they great?” she says enthusiastically, frighteningly sincere in her adoration of a snack that might have just burned straight through his oesophagus – and it’s moments like these that Poe remembers she grew up on tasteless rations and nothing else. “Remind me to get you some better snacks,” he wheezes through an aching throat – and though his eyes are still streaming miserably, when Rey makes an excited sound behind him, he can’t help but smile.

These are his friends now.

Force help him.

*

Poe doesn’t really know how it happens, but he ends up going back to Avenelle with none other than Luke himself as his second. Preparations are made in a blur of ruthless efficiency; before he knows it Poe is back in the cockpit of his X-Wing, locking in their course as Luke slides seamlessly into position behind him. Poe takes a brief moment to wonder whether his current predicament means he’s lucky or doomed. As of right now, he’s undecided, but it’s probably some combination of both.

It’s not that it doesn’t make sense, in a way – Poe can admit to that much, albeit reluctantly. This mission, like the first one to Avenelle, is supposed to be strictly observational, which is ideal for easing Luke back into life as a Resistance fighter. By all accounts (not to mention more than a few legends), Luke is an ace pilot, too – that’s obviously never a bad thing. Besides, Poe’s growing awareness of Luke makes them a solid team, though he’s not entirely sure how reliable or reciprocal their connection actually is – nor how many people know about it.

So maybe the joint assignment isn’t _that_ surprising – but still, Poe has several excellent, experienced pilots under his command, people he’s flown with for a considerable time – it’s not like this mission would have been impossible without Luke. Plus, and maybe most importantly, Poe’s embarrassing crush (for lack of a better word) hasn’t weakened – if anything, it’s only gotten worse with prolonged exposure. Which is… less than ideal.

Poe has the sneaking suspicion that General Organa is laughing at him behind his back somewhere.

Either way, it doesn’t matter now. They have a job to do – no time to waste. Poe opens a secure channel and drums his fingers on the dashboard absentmindedly until the connection takes hold.

“Command, this is Black Leader. Take-off completed. Setting course to Avenelle.”

“Confirm, Black Leader. Check-in in thirty. May the Force be with you.” Poe snorts at that but suppresses his reflexive snarky response – the Resistance may not be big on regulations or protocol, but that would probably be frowned upon. He breaks the connection and switches to another frequency instead.

“Black Two, this is Black Leader. You ready for this?”

In the moments before Luke responds, the connection is laced with weak but persistent static; Poe frowns to himself as he fruitlessly tries to tweak the settings. This hadn’t been an issue during communication with command, nor in any of his training runs since the first Avenelle mission. BB-8 buzzes quizzically behind him, but offers no further explanation.

“Black Leader, this is Black Two. Let’s do this.” Luke’s voice is muffled and slightly distorted, but Poe still catches the faint undercurrent of excitement. It may not be entirely appropriate under the circumstances, but he understands it all the same.

Even though they’re in separate X-Wings, the warmth that accompanies Luke wherever he goes extends into Poe’s cockpit as well, familiar and deeply appealing – for a moment, Poe can’t help but revel in it. As he makes the jump to hyperspace, he sighs heavily to himself, shaking his head in defeat. Fucking pathetic.

*

The journey to Avenelle is uneventful enough to almost lull them into a false sense of security; it all goes to shit as soon as they arrive.

Poe barely has time to register what he’s seeing – TIE Fighters, and lots of them, lying in wait and immediately opening fire – before he’s forced into a violent tailspin; Luke neatly follows him down, shouting something over the comms that’s hopelessly lost in a mix of panic and roiling static. Poe only manages to catch the last words, “–tipped off!” Which, yes, is probably true, but also a concern for a later time – preferably a time after they’re done getting shot at.

Poe curses as he drops into another emergency evasive manoeuvre and narrowly avoids getting hit by a lethal laser blast – it goes miraculously wide at the last possible second, glancing off the hull of his X-Wing. He punches a button to send an automated distress signal to base before switching back to Luke’s frequency and ignoring protocol entirely, just shouting, “Follow my lead!”

He doesn’t have time to wait for confirmation, just veers sharply to the left, swerving out and rapidly losing height, BB-8 operating the gun station behind him – he feels an odd thrill of exhilaration when Luke tails him without a hitch, not once faltering or breaking formation – they’re operating like a single unit now, unbreakable and unpredictable.

They are woefully, spectacularly outnumbered, though – Poe sends one TIE Fighter spiralling back into the planet’s atmosphere, another careening off-course and into a cluster of space rubble, then another, and another, sees Luke do the same, but it’s not nearly enough. Thinking fast, heart in his throat and hands tight on the controls, Poe can come up with only one possible course of action in which they have any hope of survival – take cover. Somehow.

Poe sends up a wordless but fervent prayer to any deity willing to listen to him before signalling for Luke to follow him and starting the descent.

*

Which is how they find themselves stranded on Avenelle, hiding under a rocky overhang in the lush jungle spanning the planet’s equator, battered X-Wings stowed haphazardly under a thick cover of leaves and TIE Fighters shrieking menacingly overhead. Apart from the automated distress signal, no contact with base has been established – any attempt at communication might get traced, and besides, all help sent their way would probably go down as well. For now, they’ll just have to wait it out.

Poe curses as he pulls off his helmet and runs a hand through his sweaty hair, his breath still coming slightly faster than usual. The chirping sounds of indigenous insects are loud in his ears, strange and unfamiliar. Water is rushing somewhere nearby. Luke, annoyingly unruffled by either their turbulent descent or the cloying humidity of his current surroundings, glances up at his approach.

“So– they were definitely waiting for us,” Poe states rather redundantly – Luke grimaces and nods in silent agreement all the same, waving for Poe to join him on the earthy forest floor. Poe sits with a groan, his every muscle strained and sore; Luke offers him water from his flask, and he drinks deeply.

They share the silence for a while, staring out into the endlessly waving sea of green. Poe finds himself slowly winding down, letting go of the sizzling tension by tiny increments.

“Wait, Poe– are you hurt?” Luke asks suddenly, sounding alarmed and reaching out for Poe’s hand just as a flare of heat surges up to coil around him, soft and anxious. Their hands touch; Poe almost starts with the dizzying intensity of it, electrifying like a bolt of lightning. He looks down in bemusement to find himself bleeding, and rather profusely at that, from a long but superficial gash running the length of his forearm. “Oh,” he says, mildly surprised, then immediately shrugs it off, “–it’s just a scratch. Didn’t even feel it.”

Luke scoffs at that, but doesn’t draw away, doesn’t let go of his hand. Humming quietly to himself, he starts lightly tracing Poe’s knuckles with his fingertips, drawing intricate patterns into his palm, contemplative and seemingly mesmerized; in Poe’s current state of lingering hyperawareness, the single point of contact very nearly _burns_ , beautiful in its simplicity, drawing him in – Poe leans into his abundant warmth almost reflexively, turning his head to glance at Luke.

Luke’s eyes seem to smoulder in the dimness of the cave-like overhang, bright and impossibly blue, and for once he meets Poe’s eyes and doesn’t look away. And, well, here’s the thing – Luke’s suddenly very close, still holding his hand, and the heat is overwhelming, and they just almost died, _again_ – Poe doesn’t really have it in him to fight this helpless attraction anymore, is abruptly and entirely exhausted with it. He leans closer; Luke watches him intently, vulnerable but with a quiet hint of heat, and he doesn’t move away. Poe licks his lips, thrilling with dark satisfaction when Luke sucks in a shaky breath – his gaze drops to his mouth before flicking back up to his eyes. Closer still. Luke swallows convulsively, his lips parting ever so slightly in breathless anticipation, his eyes wide and unguarded–

–a twig snaps in the thick underbrush, loud and unexpected, crushed under the heavy tread of booted feet, shattering the moment; they spring apart and to their feet, immediately on guard. Poe clears his throat as he frantically scans his surroundings, his hand drifting down to the blaster on his hip. Luke, meanwhile, flustered and charmingly uncertain only moments before, draws himself together in the space between one breath and the next. Without warning, he steps in front of Poe and raises his voice.

“Show yourself!” Luke’s tone is harsh and unforgiving, cold and unyielding like steel. It’s a clear command, and it’s one that Luke expects to be obeyed. His back is a tense, unbreakable line; his shoulders are rigid under the fabric of his flight suit. He’s hardened into something different altogether – something powerful and immovable and infinitely more dangerous.

At the muffled click of a blaster safety, Luke whirls around toward the source of the sound, pulsing heat flaring out wildly behind him. There’s a soft whooshing sound followed by a crack, and suddenly a Stormtrooper stumbles into the clearing, almost as if he’s being dragged – the vicious anonymity of the white armour is such a strong reminder that it _hurts_ , and Poe takes an involuntary step back, feeling abruptly winded as black-edged memories of the Finalizer assault his senses.

The Stormtrooper makes a move toward his blaster, oddly hesitant but still prepared to take advantage of this unexpected show of weakness; Luke narrows his eyes and waves his hand, the gesture measured yet looking almost careless. There’s a click, and the weapon hurtles through the still air toward them; Luke catches it easily, not looking away while he stows it safely in his belt.

Unarmed and finally accurately sensing danger, the Stormtrooper tries to turn away and flee, his white-clad hand already inching toward his call button, but Luke says, “I really wouldn’t do that if I were you,” and throws out his hand again. There’s an indefinable shift in the air, palpable like a pressure change, and the Trooper just _stops_ , and slumps, acutely powerless. “Go build a treehouse somewhere,” says Luke, low and coldly dismissive – he sounds almost resigned, but Poe hears the quiet fury simmering underneath the words, and feels the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

Like every other child in his galaxy and far beyond, Poe has grown up hearing stories of the Last Jedi, as benevolent as he is powerful, as dangerous as he is merciful. He knows the stories well, could probably recite them in his sleep, but somehow he has never equated the near-mythical hero of his childhood with the reality of _Luke_ , kind-hearted and introverted and disarmingly normal, strange fondness for hot chocolate and questionable taste in facial hair included. Now, for the first time, Poe truly understands why billions of people across countless planets and galaxies revere and fear Luke Skywalker in equal measure. Seeing him like this is magnificent, and awe-inspiring, and terrifying – Luke _exudes_ power, it emanates from him in waves. Poe can’t suppress a shiver at the raw force in his voice.

The Stormtrooper turns and walks away without a word, disappearing quietly into the thick of the jungle – he looks more like a reprimanded child than a hardened soldier, slumping his shoulders dejectedly and dragging his feet. Poe watches him leave with flat incredulity, then turns back around to look at Luke in delighted astonishment. He finds him looking back with something close to trepidation, rueful and almost nervous, as if he’s afraid this show of power will somehow scare Poe off. Poe very nearly scoffs at the notion – as if dissuading him would actually ever be that simple.

He’s on the verge of saying something impulsive along those lines when Luke holds up his hand, effectively cutting him off. “Let’s radio base – I’m guessing there’s more of those guys where he came from, and we really should get back in the air before they find us.” He sounds suddenly exhausted, weary and almost downtrodden with a faint hint of disappointment. His demeanour doesn’t exactly invite further conversation, so Poe decides to back off – it can wait.

Contact with base is established and emergency X-Wing repairs quickly conducted – Luke is unfailingly attentive but doesn’t talk much, appearing withdrawn and deep in thought. Thankfully, the TIE Fighters eventually leave them be, and they’re able to get away with a minimum of fuss. When they take off into Avenelle’s cloudy atmosphere, Poe watches the jungle below grow distant with a strange mix of relief and wistfulness. He doesn’t look away until they make the jump to hyperspace.

*

The return journey is straightforward enough for Poe to get in some contemplation of his own, mind still sharp and blindingly clear after the mission; he comes to a decision before they move into orbit around D’Qar.

After they land, Poe hops easily onto the runway tarmac and takes off his helmet. Instead of moving back into the base, he walks over to where Luke’s X-Wing is still powering down. BB-8 zooms past him and makes a beeline for the mechanized hangar doors as per Poe’s pre-landing request, chirping teasingly and making sure to bump into his legs on its way out. Poe smiles as he watches the droid disappear, then redirects his attention to Luke and swallows, his throat abruptly dry. For some inexplicable reason, he feels nervous.

The wait until Luke exits the cockpit of his X-Wing feels about three times as long as it probably is – Poe is suddenly very aware of his heart, loud and traitorous as it thumps against his ribcage. When Luke finally appears, he seems surprised to see him. He doesn’t speak, and he doesn’t move to come closer – he looks like he’s carefully and purposefully containing himself, holding back, even his familiar warmth feeling distant and impersonal, and it’s breaking Poe’s heart. After that, the words just come.

“I’m not afraid of you, Luke,” he bursts out, urgent and forceful, “You didn’t scare me with what you did back there–” he waves a hand and watches the words impact, sees the quiet wonder in Luke’s expression before it is quickly and ruthlessly squashed into neutrality, decides to continue– “and it didn’t _trigger_ anything, either, if that’s what you’re–”

Luke’s eyes flash up to meet his, incisive and breathtakingly open, and Poe abruptly loses his train of thought, humbled in the face of such ancient, world-shattering sadness. He wants to step closer, to offer comfort in the face of such hurt, but he forces himself to wait it out, hardly daring to breathe. He feels like they are balancing precariously on the tip of a knife, or teetering on the edge of a cliff, where one wrong move will make them fall. This is important.

“You don’t scare me, Luke,” Poe repeats empathically, pouring every last drop of sincerity he has into his voice, trying not to sound too much like he’s reassuring a frightened animal, “You never have, and you never will. You hear me?”

Luke mutters something scathing under his breath, obviously at war with himself. He still looks weary and somewhat cautious, but something of what Poe is trying to tell him appears to have pierced through the fog he’s shrouded himself in. He isn’t quite smiling, but the lines around his eyes have lost some of their tension.

“Poe–” Luke says, then falls silent and blows out a breath, frustration etched clearly onto his stubborn brow – but it is mixed with… _something_. Something bright and simple and joyfully resigned; something that makes hope bubble in Poe’s chest and sing in his veins. Something unstoppable.

Luke must feel it too, because he takes a hesitant step closer, as if somehow uncertain of his welcome – and just like that, the atmosphere changes, the air suddenly charged and heavy with promise. Poe sucks in a quick breath, feeling his heartrate spike. Soft tendrils of warmth are breaking through Luke’s carefully constructed walls to float tenderly across his skin, quietly reaching out for him, and Poe can’t help the wide smile breaking across his face.

Their eyes meet; Luke smiles back at him, apparently every bit as helpless to stop this from happening as he is, but the edges of his smile are tinged with sadness. He’s not quite there yet, then – still holding onto the last crumbling vestiges of his indecision, as if in a last-ditch effort to not let himself have this. Poe draws back a little, not wanting to pressure him.

If Poe hadn’t been so utterly attuned to Luke, he might have read his hesitancy as resistance to _him_ – but that’s not what it is. Not when familiar warmth is curling around Poe like a second skin, soft and vibrant and alive. Not when Luke is constantly on the verge of leaning in, swaying closer almost reflexively.

“I’m old,” Luke scoffs, disparaging and almost desperately weary, half-turning away. “You don’t deserve–”

Poe stops him with a hand on his arm, a single point of contact. “You’re _not old_ , Luke,” he says, and okay – that may have come out a little more intense than the situation warrants, but _come on._ He tries to catch Luke’s gaze, only continuing when he’s absolutely sure Luke hears him, his blue eyes brilliant and open on his face, “Besides, it’s for me to decide what I do and do not deserve, isn’t it?”

He watches Luke with a sense of quiet satisfaction as the words sink in, watches the play of emotions across his face. There’s guilt, and regret, and bottomless sadness. Burning anger; overwhelming grief. Loneliness. Quiet, stubborn resilience. Hopefulness. Longing. Relief.

_Love._

And just like that, Poe craves contact – can’t imagine a universe in which they aren’t touching in this moment. He grabs Luke by the wrist, drawing him in just as Luke reaches out for him too. They fall together as if pulled by a magnetic force, clutching at each other like drowning men.

“I want you,” Poe whispers, and Luke shudders against him, melting into him and making a broken sound into his shoulder. He smells like fire and earth and grass and _home_ , and Poe just really, _really_ wants to make sure.

“Tell me you don’t feel this, too,” he whispers brokenly, forcing the words out even as he buries his face in the crook of Luke’s neck, “Tell me, and I promise I will leave you be.” He means it – as much as it would pain him to walk away, he never wants to cause Luke hurt. The man has suffered enough for several lifetimes – Poe can’t add to that. He won’t.

For a moment, Luke doesn’t reply. When he steps back and out of the embrace, putting some more space between them, Poe instantly feels cold and oddly forlorn. Luke looks serious, a small frown rippling his weathered forehead, and Poe suddenly isn’t sure he wants to hear this, isn’t sure he can handle it. His heart, racing frantically only moments before, feels like it has disappeared altogether.

The grave silence that permeates the space between them seems to stretch on forever.

“Surely you know–” Luke says then, and he sounds _wrecked_ , the words loaded and brutally honest– “You _must_ know that I– that staying away from you is… an impossibility for me.”

Something warm and rich inside Poe’s chest expands at that, stealing his breath; he steps closer on instinct, drawing Luke roughly back into his arms. Both of them are trembling; everything around them is thrumming with heat, shimmering with it. Luke’s eyes are overflowing with raw, trembling emotion, bright with unshed tears. This close, it’s hard to look at him, like looking directly into the sun – and Poe, reckless and crazy with the thunder of his crashing, bleeding heart, can’t look away.

Poe reaches up to cradle Luke’s cheek in the palm of his hand, the innocent gesture feeling oddly daring – though he’s done much more with people he’s known less, this feels somehow new, somehow revolutionary. His breath hitches painfully in his throat when Luke makes a soft, shaky sound and leans into the touch, his eyes fluttering shut in quiet contentment. His hand comes up to close over Poe’s, solid and warm and _real_ , and Poe is mesmerized, helplessly and utterly charmed.

He isn’t used to any of this, he thinks to himself wildly, disjointedly, almost desperately. He’s flying blind here, both of them are, and it’s terrifying and bewildering and exhilarating all at the same time.

Poe never, ever wants to stop.

*

Unfortunately, life doesn’t pause for anyone, especially in the middle of a war – they are interrupted by the chirp of a comm summons before anything more can be said. Poe steps back with a regretful smile and runs a hand through his tousled hair, futilely attempting to straighten it out before meeting with command. He doesn’t miss the way Luke’s wide eyes darken almost imperceptibly at the gesture, and carefully files that information away for future reference.

He can’t resist darting back in to press his mouth to Luke’s forehead, the barest teasing shadow of a kiss, just to see the gobsmacked expression on his face. Then he backs off, grabbing Luke’s hand as he leads their way off the tarmac and into the hangar building. His own hand tingles with heat the whole way.

When they get to the mission centre, General Organa is waiting for them with her arms crossed tightly over her chest. Poe automatically stands up straight, shooting off a quick salute. The general may be tiny and ultimately good-hearted, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t also scary as hell. He has to suppress a smile when Luke fidgets uneasily next to him, making a valiant but unsuccessful effort to reign in the warmth that’s in riotous disarray around him.

“Commander Dameron. Commander Skywalker. Glad to have the both of you back in one piece,” the general begins, all business for the moment, her tone brusque but not unkind. She mainly addresses Poe when she continues, “Your astromech droid already provided me with your initial findings, but I’d like your account as well, please.”

Poe nods and relays his report, Luke occasionally supplementing with insights of his own. Poe can’t help but notice the way Leia looks keenly between them, listening and observing with a kind of guarded pleasure that is hard to pinpoint, her intelligent eyes bright and alive with interest.

Luke waits for Poe to get his outline of the mission report out of the way before he starts talking. “When that Trooper found us, I… tried to find out more. About why they’re there. I had to,” he says, throwing a quick, half-apologetic glance in Poe’s direction. Poe carefully schools his expression into something resembling neutral, suppressing his reflexive wince at the subject. He’s not quite certain he manages it, but it will have to do.

Luke sounds worried when he continues, lowering his voice so as not to be overheard and speaking quickly, “They’re… planning something, Leia. _Building_ something – some kind of weapon again, most likely. I couldn’t get all of it – I don’t think he was high enough on the chain of command to know much of anything really – but… he was _proud,_ ” Luke frowns in remembered dismay; the general taps her foot impatiently, wordlessly urging her brother to continue, “All I really got was that it’s big, whatever it is – and that it’s almost finished.”

“Ominous and frustratingly vague as always, brother,” General Organa says, rolling her eyes and looking for a moment vaguely annoyed, before she sighs and continues, “but I have to admit it fits uncomfortably well with the intel we already had, and the information BB-8 provided. Avenelle may not be a big trading post, but there has been an upsurge in First Order dealings in the sector lately – metals, mainly, quadanium alloy and durasteel, but thorilide as well – all important components for a high-tech, highly dangerous weapon, as I’m sure you both know. Not to mention the presence of TIE Fighters and a legion of Stormtroopers on Avenelle at all, which is… alarming, frankly.”

The general falls silent and pinches the bridge of her nose, looking torn between weariness and furious resignation, before she glances up and addresses them in a decisive tone, “I think we need to make this matter a priority. Commander Dameron, please remain here – I’d like to go over some of the mission files with you, and we’ll see whether we can cobble together some kind of strategy. Commander Skywalker–” she throws Luke a hard look, as if trying to parse him out, before she nods once and finishes– “you’re dismissed.”

The general looks between them for a moment, something expectant and knowing in the tilt of her proud head. When neither of them appears inclined to speak, she snorts in amused exasperation and turns her attention decisively to the assortment of flashing screens in front of her, a clear dismissal. Luke throws a sideways glance at Poe and quirks an eyebrow in silent concern, his fluid warmth flowing free and unrestrained around them both. Poe smiles reassuringly in response and dares to reach out, his touch fleeting but meaningful as he tries to answer Luke’s unspoken question without words.

Luke is about to leave when General Organa waves her hand at him, not looking up from her screen as she raises her voice. “Off you go, then, Luke,” she says, her tone light and deceptively innocent, almost sing-song, which serves to make Poe immediately and deeply suspicious, “you’ll have the commander to yourself soon enough, I assure you.”

The effect of her suggestive words is immediate: Luke starts coughing and spluttering indignantly, rendered temporarily speechless as he flushes a bright red. Though he looks about ready to throttle his unrepentant sister, he seems to have learned from long years of fighting with the general that his victory is highly unlikely. There’s a prolonged pause in which Luke stares at his sister searchingly – from an outsider perspective, it looks like they are having an intense but entirely silent conversation. Eventually Luke huffs in exasperated defeat, throwing an apologetic look in Poe’s direction as he turns on his heel to leave. Poe just rolls his eyes and smiles, inexplicably and overwhelmingly fond.

In the silence following Luke’s hasty departure, General Organa looks at Poe with a faint smirk, her dark eyes still sparkling with humour. “Come on, Dameron,” she says in response to his expression of vague betrayal, “I’m his sister, I had to do it.” She doesn’t wait for his reply, clapping her hands together firmly as she turns to face him, “Now– let’s talk.”

*

The next day finds Poe with Rey and Finn in a secluded, woody area of the base, all three of them sweaty and nearly breathless with laughter as they grapple desperately for control. What started as a training session in hand-to-hand combat has somehow turned into an impromptu three-person wrestle match without any tactics or rules – one that no one is currently winning.

It’s a chaotic tangle of pointy limbs and warmth and rough affection, and Poe is already sore and probably bruising all over, and it’s glorious and real and still _safe_ , somehow.

“Okay, I’m done – I’m done,” Finn eventually pants, holding up his hands in surrender as he backs away and gets to his feet with some difficulty. Though he tries to play it off, his pained grimace is obvious – Poe feels a stab of guilt, sickly and immediate, and from the corner of his eye he sees Rey wince. Finn’s gotten much better over the past few months, but his injuries still pain him when he overexerts himself; it’s something that’s only too easy to forget when he always puts on such a brave face. No longer in the mood for play, Poe releases his immobilizing grip on Rey’s arm and rolls nimbly to his feet, offering her a hand up which she readily accepts.

They sit on the forest floor together, the trees on the edge of the small clearing providing some welcome shade. Poe passes around his bottle of water, leaning back on his elbows as he watches his friends. Rey drinks quickly and with a kind of hungry enthusiasm, wiping her mouth sloppily with the back of her hand when she’s done. Finn is more careful about it, taking a few measured sips before passing the bottle back to Poe with a small smile, leaving exactly one third of the water. Heart clenching painfully for both of them, Poe doesn’t comment, just drinks his share.

“Weren’t you supposed to have a mission today?” Finn asks, reaching into his pack and proudly producing some apple cakes to share, slightly flattened from the trek through the forest but otherwise unharmed and smelling fresh. Poe smiles gratefully as he takes one, mulling over his answer as he chews, unsure of how much he is allowed to share. “I was, yes,” he finally concedes, then after a silence elaborates, “the general had to switch some things around. The… priorities are different now.” It’s not much – but it’s already more than he would have told most other people.

“Does this switch of priorities have anything to do with your mission to Avenelle yesterday?” Rey asks casually as she bites off a sizable portion of apple cake, her particular brand of perceptiveness almost shocking in its bluntness. At Poe’s questioning look, she rolls her eyes and says, “What? I always know things I’m not supposed to know – this isn’t surprising,” then sighs and tries to clarify, “I talked to Luke after he came back yesterday, and I just– _knew._ I guess. It happens sometimes.” She shrugs and grabs another apple cake from Finn’s stash, apparently unconcerned with Poe’s obvious bewilderment.

Poe stares at her some more, but gives up when it doesn’t appear to have any effect. Mentally skipping back through the conversation to something he actually knows how to deal with, he opts for just answering her question. “It has everything to do with that mission, actually,” he starts, not seeing the point in lying to a fucking _Jedi mind-reader in training_. After a brief hesitation, he forces himself to go on, “We… found evidence of another First Order weapon being built.” At that, Finn makes a small sound of distress, looking anxious and nauseated – Poe puts a comforting hand on his knee in silent camaraderie before he amends, “Luke did, anyway – after we landed, we ran into a Trooper, and he… used his skills. To find out more.” Though he tries to keep his voice neutral, he sees Rey react to his instinctive distaste, feels her conscious effort to contain the warmth flowing wild and unfettered around her – it is unnecessary, but he appreciates her kindness all the same. 

There’s a beat of silence.

“When I first started training with Luke, I was afraid,” Rey says, voice soft and eyes focused on something faraway, “Terrified, actually – of him, of myself, my powers… my memories.” A shadow passes over her face at that, but she takes a shuddering breath and soldiers on, “I was afraid to even talk to Luke – for all I knew, he was the same as Ren. I could feel his power, after all, and at first they felt the same.” She pauses; when she continues, her smile is tinged with a peculiar kind of sadness, “I was wrong, of course. They aren’t the same at all. You know it, too.” This is addressed to Poe, and Rey looks at him with fierce conviction blazing in her eyes, “Luke has the power to do terrible things, yes – but that’s not really what this is about. At the core, it’s not about the power – it’s about how you choose to use what power you have. I know it’s not the same, but… we all make that choice, every day, don’t we – the choice to do good, or evil, or nothing. And Luke is _good_ , Poe. I would stake my life on that.”

Poe doesn’t know what to say to that – Rey is passionate, emotional, bright and overwhelming like a star being born – but at her words he feels a tight knot in his chest finally unravel. “Thank you,” he eventually says, and means it, even though he doesn’t quite know what he’s thanking her for, even though his voice is hoarse and the words are too much and not enough. It doesn’t matter. Rey smiles at him and nods, once, firm and kind and wise beyond her years, reaching out to him – her hand is small and warm in his, the canopy alive and buzzing with the sounds of the forest, and for a moment everything is perfectly still.

It doesn’t last long.

“So… where is Luke right now?” Rey asks into the silence, squeezing Poe’s hand and surprising him into giving a straight answer where he might otherwise have deflected. “He’s on base, probably with the general – about two klicks to the northeast, on the first floor,” Poe says, and knows it’s true before the surprise in Rey’s expression confirms it – Luke’s pulsing heat is remarkably clear to him now, and getting clearer every day. He’s not always aware of it, but if he concentrates, he can always feel it.

Rey snorts at his admission, throwing Finn a curiously triumphant look. “Well – I guess that’s alright, then,” she announces, leaning over and patting Poe’s knee with a smile that’s almost smug. After that mysterious declaration, she tosses the last piece of apple cake into her mouth and scrambles to her feet, offering Finn her hand with an ease that speaks of practice. When he takes it, Rey quickly interlaces their fingers, smiling widely up at him; Finn looks thrilled, beaming at Rey with unabashed and incredulous joy, their linked hands swinging between them. Poe watches it happen with a fondness that is almost uncontainable, revelling in their blooming happiness.

“Come on, old man,” Rey says laughingly, prodding him with her foot and forcing him from his reverie, “We’ve been gone for hours – it’s time to get back to base.” She bends down to ruffle Poe’s hair, laughing loudly and delightedly at his half-suppressed shout of alarm. When Poe gets up, she slings a lanky arm around his neck, drawing him into her side for a one-armed hug. It’s rough and lopsided and slightly awkward, and Poe returns it with all his might.

*

Despite General Organa’s teasing promise, he doesn’t see Luke again for the next few days. It’s not intentional, or at least, Poe is pretty sure it isn’t – Luke has been secluded away with his sister almost continuously, the two of them presumably bickering their way through a string of top-secret meetings, and Poe himself has been sent out on several missions, trying to find out more about the possible location of the First Order weapon. So far, they haven’t been particularly lucky – The First Order has always been good at covering its tracks, and the Resistance is perpetually spread too thin.

Nevertheless, Poe can’t help feeling unsettled by Luke’s absence, almost nervous – something important and vulnerable is unfinished between them, and it’s keeping him off-balance.

When four days have passed without contact, Poe has finally had enough of waiting – the mission he’s about to leave on is risky, with high stakes and far too many unpredictabilities, and for some reason he’s feeling more jittery than usual, uneasy and strangely on edge. He’s halfway to the hangar bay when the idea forms in his mind, pervasive and impossible to ignore, and he makes a snap decision; sending BB-8 ahead to start on the pre-flight checks, he changes his destination.

At the next intersection, Poe takes a left off the main hallway, following the pull of warmth that is now always in the back of his mind; after a few more winding turns, he ends up in front of Luke’s assigned room – a tiny, nondescript cubicle somewhere at the back of the base.

The door is closed, but Poe knows Luke is inside, can pick out the steady pulse of his energy without conscious effort. Taking a quick fortifying breath, he raises his hand to the door.

“Door’s open,” Luke calls out distractedly at his knock – even without seeing him, Poe knows he’s tired from the way his voice sounds flat and worn down. He looks up when Poe enters, putting aside the official-looking papers he was reading. “Poe,” he says, surprised but obviously pleased, his whole face lighting up, “I wasn’t expecting to see you today – Leia told me you would be out on a mission first thing in the morning.” He gets up from his seat to greet Poe, hesitating briefly before darting in to brush a light kiss along his jaw and moving back again; Poe barely has time to register the thud in his stomach before it’s over. Luke smells of the woods, clean and fresh and free, and every single one of Poe’s brain processes immediately short-circuits.

Luke flushes a ruddy red at his stunned silence, suddenly charmingly shy; Poe shivers as a pleasant spike of heat rushes up his spine in response. He stares for a couple of seconds more, completely dumbfounded, before he finally remembers himself.

“Yeah, I’m– about to leave, actually,” Poe croaks, gesturing vaguely to his flight suit – Luke’s eyes track the movement with heavy intent, lingering on his chest just a little too long before flicking back up to his face, and Poe abruptly forgets what he was going to say. It’s not really a conscious decision to step closer; he finds himself abruptly ravenous for contact, craving closeness like he craves air to breathe; he instinctively recognizes the same need in Luke, and so he acts.

They’re close to the same height; when Poe leans in, Luke sways into him, and the trust implicit in that movement takes Poe’s breath away. The early morning sunlight filtering in through the tiny window bathes the room in soft gold, lending the quiet moment a serene, almost meditative quality. Poe grasps Luke’s wrist to steady himself as he brushes his lips across his brow, solemn like a vow, pressing kisses to every part of Luke he can reach – his temples, the fine lines on his forehead, the freckles dusting his cheeks, the edge of his jaw, his chin; Luke scrunches up his nose adorably as he kisses the tip, and Poe smiles, feeling inexplicably like he might cry. “You are the most perfect thing that has ever happened to me,” he whispers reverently, as if speaking aloud in this hushed atmosphere would be sacrilegious; Luke gasps and opens his eyes, his gaze bright and startled and nakedly vulnerable, warmth wild and incandescent around him, and Poe never wants to let him go.

Of course, this is when they are interrupted by the dispassionate sound of Poe’s comm, buzzing twice in quick, reproachful succession. Poe reluctantly steps back, sighing as he runs a trembling hand through his hair. “I have to go,” he says regretfully, not even bothering to check the message for confirmation, “I– Can I see you… after?” He feels strangely vulnerable asking the question, hope breaking open his chest, but Luke nods before he’s even finished asking. His expression serious, Luke reaches out to smooth down the shoulders of Poe’s flight suit, and a rush of electricity follows the path of his hands. Helpless against the onslaught, Poe shivers.

His comm beeps again – it sounds louder this time, but maybe that’s just his imagination. “I’ll see you soon, Poe,” Luke says softly, lifting his hand and kissing the inside of his wrist with heart-wrenching tenderness. Poe abruptly loses his breath. “Right,” he eventually manages to stammer out, feeling lost and half-dazed, and Luke just smiles gently as he shoes him out the door.

When the door clicks shut behind him, Poe has to take a few seconds to collect himself, feeling distinctly like he’s breaking the surface after a dive, the rest of the world rushing back in. He can’t stop the smile breaking across his face, nor does he really want to. “Right,” he repeats in a mutter, shaking his head to clear it, torn between disbelief and fondness. Exhaling heavily, he wipes a hand over his face and squares his shoulders; then, even though everything in him is screaming at him to turn back and stay, he takes off down the hallway at a run. This mission better be worth it.

*

It isn’t. In fact, it’s a veritable shitshow.

What is supposed to be a relatively straightforward attack run on a First Order weapons transport near the mining planet Donovia somehow turns into a full-on battle in the blink of an eye; after the fact, nobody quite knows when exactly things went wrong.

Poe is flying point, Jess and Snap and the rest of his squadron following close behind, effortlessly keeping formation. Communications with base are being kept to a minimum to reduce the risk of being traced, standard procedure when travelling through neutral or enemy territory, but at the last check-in nothing was out of the ordinary.

In fact, there is no reason to believe anyone is even aware of their presence until they drop out of hyperspace and straight into a war zone. Without warning, everything explodes into chaos. His shield generator is still activating when Poe fumbles blindly for his comm button.

“Command, this is Black Leader,” he shouts through the ringing in his ears, cursing under his breath as he dives sharply to avoid a head-on collision with a cruiser, “We are under attack, I repeat, we are under attack. Several heavy cruisers, Maxima-A class as far as I can tell, and at least two dozen TIE Fighters. Transmitting coordinates now. Please stand by.”

Poe drops into a tailspin with his heart lodged in his throat, trying to shake off his pursuers, but it’s no use – the blasts from the laser weapons grazing his shield are silent but unerringly lethal, and sheer luck seems to be the only thing currently keeping him in the air. He can feel BB-8’s gun thundering behind him as he switches to the frequency for short-range communication and bellows, “Black Squadron, break formation. Fall back and follow my lead.”

When he switches back to long-range frequency, he catches the tail end of an urgent transmission from base. Before he can respond, he is engaged by three TIE Fighters coming up hard and fast behind him, relentlessly going in for the kill. He curses again as he banks sharply to the right, swerving and dropping messily into another evasive manoeuvre. The inexplicable static over the comm system is playing up once more, harsh and impenetrable, in waves that bear remarkable similarity to a human heartbeat.

For a while time passes in leaps and bounds and unexpected, gaping lulls, seconds feeling like hours yet at the same time hardly registering. The squadron works well together, coordinating defence and counter-attack with relative ease, but their outlook is bleak; they are simply fighting on too many fronts, with not nearly enough manpower, and it’s starting to take its toll. Busy preventing two TIE Fighters from annihilating his second in command, Poe is helpless to do anything but watch in mute horror as one of his other squadron mates gets hit; his fighter goes down in a nauseating flare of light, spinning violently off-course and vanishing from sight behind the menacing bulk of a large cruiser.

A while after that, the situation moves from bleak to desperate. The confused jumble of fighting and shooting is disheartening and disorienting; they’ve managed to take out a fair amount of First Order fighters, but it’s not nearly enough to make a real dent, and their chances of gaining the upper hand are rapidly declining as they take hit after hit. Poe has a battered wing on one side and a malfunctioning protective shield; several laser blasts have broken through his shielding to tear into the outer hull in the last few seconds alone. He can feel his X-Wing groaning and shuddering around him as he makes himself face the facts: time is running out, and they don’t stand a chance, not like this – not against this.

Unless…

Unless.

For all that the other side is the one in control, they don’t seem to have much of a cohesive battle plan in place – their attacks are frequent but bordering on uncoordinated, and most runs miss their intended target; their orders apparently come from a large cruiser that’s looming menacingly in the black, careful to stay away from active combat.

It might work. At the very least, it may provide sufficient distraction for the others to get away.

Forcing his hands to hold steady as his frantic uncertainty solidifies into resolve, Poe activates the comm link to his squad mates.

“This is Black Leader. I’m going in, try and disable that cruiser – that’s where their orders are coming from. Without it, they’ll be useless.”

“No – that’s suicide, Poe,” someone yells over the comm. Jess, of course. “It’s too dangerous! We can’t let you do this.” Poe almost smiles at the stubborn defiance in her tone, even over the violent roiling of his stomach.

“Cover me as long as you can, but no unnecessary risks. If I don’t make it, disengage and return to base immediately,” Poe replies, forcing a calm he does not feel – when Jess continues her protests, he cuts her off with a grimace, “That’s an order, lieutenant.”

Another hit jars his frame as Poe turns in his seat, addressing his astromech droid, “I’m sorry about this, buddy. I’ll try my best to get us out in one piece, but you better send your back-up data to base now.” BB-8 whirrs loudly in assent and gives a series of rapid beeps, somehow telegraphing perfect confidence without the help of any body language. It helps, somewhat, and he sits back in his seat.

Heart thumping erratically against his ribcage, Poe re-establishes contact with base to notify them of his decision. He tunes out their ensuing protests as much as he can, trying his best to ignore the clipped voice of the radio operator in his ear, breathing harshly as he tries to calculate his angle of attack. His X-Wing shudders with the force of another impact, and a disorientating wave of heavy static washes over him, drawing him under. For several seconds the whole world blurs around the edges, going in and out of focus rapidly; his X-Wing shakes violently again, reverberating with the tearing sound of another direct hit, and Poe is forced into a desperate corkscrew.

Blinking the sweat out of his eyes and squinting into the dark, Poe tries to catch his breath. For the record, he is fully aware this is insane – he may well be reckless and cocky and a great many other unflattering things, but stupid he is not. It’s just – well, he never expected to die from old age anyway, what with his choice of career; what better way to go out than in an attempt to save his squadron?

Veering to the right to dodge another hit, he spares a quick thought to what he’s leaving behind, and it’s so, _so_ much more than he ever expected. As fragmented memories flash before his eyes, sudden grief grips him like a vice, crushing and inescapable and endless.

Finn, with his kind, thoughtful eyes, his brave, brave heart. Rey and her stubborn, faithful optimism. General Organa with her quick wit, her razor-sharp tongue, her formidable determination. Jess, and Snap, and Xan, who will hopefully manage to get to safety. Luke, Luke, _Luke-_

Poe stops himself there. This is going nowhere. After all, he has no other choice – he’s already lost one of his team, and he can’t lose another; he won’t. No use tormenting himself with what might have been. Another life, perhaps; another universe.

He is here. He is now. He is still fighting, and he refuses to surrender. His squadron has his back, providing steady cover fire; getting them out safely is all that matters now. Saying a silent prayer to every deity willing to hear him, Poe takes off in the direction of the cruiser.

*

When the cruiser finally goes down in a rain of fiery sparks, having done extensive damage to his X-Wing, Poe is too exhausted to feel anything but numb.

Somehow, impossibly, he makes it out.

*

Poe is rushed away as soon as his plane touches down, swept up in the avalanche of medics and check-ups and debriefs that follows a mission gone awry.

He catches sight of Luke waiting for him at the hangar bay, white-faced and serious, heat in swirling disarray around him. When their eyes meet, Luke’s face goes slack with momentary relief before he seems to forcefully pull himself back together. He doesn’t make a move to follow them.

*

When Poe finally steps foot outside the mission centre after his last debriefing of the day, Luke is waiting for him, eyes stormy and jaw set, the warmth around him flaring and flickering like wildfire. “Follow me, Commander,” he just says, his tone brokering no argument, and Poe feels his heart drop at the harsh address. Uncharacteristically, he doesn’t joke or argue, just falls into step beside Luke.

They make their way along hallway after deserted hallway in stony silence; Luke takes the lead like a man on a mission, with Poe practically tripping over himself trying to keep up. 

“I can’t fucking believe you,” Luke finally mutters furiously, patently refusing to look at Poe as he stomps along, “sacrificing yourself like that, it was completely irresponsible, and–”

“I already got an earful from General Organa about that, believe me,” Poe says tiredly, holding up a hand, “I don’t need it from you, too.”

Luke shoots him a glare over his shoulder as he takes a sharp left, predictably ignoring his request and still fuming as he continues, “–I always knew you were reckless, but I never thought I would see you do something so singularly _stupid_ –”

“Wait– you were there? In the mission centre?” Poe interrupts, feeling oddly flattered and abruptly and inappropriately much better about the situation.

“Of course I was,” Luke scoffs dismissively, sounding almost offended, “I had a first-class seat to that– that suicidal, ludicrous shitshow you call a mission, thank you kindly.” His voice is sharp enough to cut glass, but he doesn’t say anything more as they march along.

When they eventually end up in front of Luke’s room, Luke waves a careless hand to open the door and steps inside. Poe half-expects him to slam the door in his face; what he doesn’t expect is to be grabbed by the shoulders and manhandled inside.

The quiet click of the door closing behind him is deafening in the silence. One moment Poe is blinking into the relative darkness of the room; the next he’s being dragged into a rough hug, Luke’s voice low and shaky in his ear, breaking on an angry sob as cold fury gives way to something desperate and alive. “ _Never_ do anything like that again, you hear me? I can’t bear it.”

“Luke–” Poe says, feeling stricken as he returns the embrace, letting Luke’s indescribable warmth crash over and immerse them both, “I didn’t want to– I had to, but it was the– the hardest thing–” he swallows through the sudden nerves making the words stick in his throat, trying to find the courage to speak his truth, “I couldn’t stand the thought of leaving you behind.”

Luke stills against him, and for a single heart-stopping moment Poe worries he’s gone too far.

Then Luke breathes out a tremulous laugh into the crook of his neck, tears clear in his voice and relief bleeding out of him in almost palpable clouds. “Oh, fuck this,” he half-growls, voice low and gravelly and desperate, and without warning drops to his knees. Poe abruptly forgets to breathe; he is immediately, heartbreakingly, helplessly hard.

Luke looks up at him as he fumbles with the zipper on his flight suit, his eyes wide and fever bright; his whispered “ _Please_ ” sounds like a prayer and a curse rolled into one, and Poe can only nod dumbly in assent.

As soon as Luke gets a hand on him, warm and a little rough and _perfect_ , Poe chokes on a gasp, head falling back against the door. He reaches out to thread shaky fingers through Luke’s hair, trying to ground himself somehow, already ridiculously close to coming with the heady combination of his own overwhelming emotion and the electric warmth dancing around him. Luke looks up at him and smiles a slow smile, pupils blown wide and tears clinging to his lashes – then he glances down and twists his wrist _just so_ , and Poe utters a guttural curse, his hips jerking forward involuntarily.

When Luke leans in and puts his mouth on him, Poe whines low in his throat and squeezes his eyes shut, stars exploding behind his eyelids. He feels his knees go weak as Luke swirls his tongue and moans around him, chasing his taste with a kind of earnest desperation, the low pulsing heat between them urging him on. Poe feels out of control, lost in the onslaught of sensation, almost drunk with it. He cups the back of Luke’s head in a reverent hand and holds on, always careful not to choke him; Luke traces the sensitive vein on the underside of his cock with his tongue, humming in encouragement as Poe’s fingers tighten in his hair.

Poe comes undone with a sigh, the waves of his release crashing over him with unrelenting force. Luke sits back on his haunches with a satisfied smile, panting and wiping at his mouth almost absentmindedly. For a moment Poe can only blink down at him in wonder, shaky and loose-limbed and severely overwhelmed; then he snaps out of his bemused reverie to drag Luke up by the sleeve, catching his willing mouth in a searing kiss. In this position, Poe can feel Luke’s arousal press insistently into his thigh, and his mouth goes dry with a fresh surge of desire, sparks of fire rushing down his spine.

A detached corner of Poe’s mind spares a grateful thought to the fact that Luke has foregone his customary Jedi robes today – his Resistance uniform of loose pants and a shirt is much more convenient for one-handed access. Poe tries to undo the button on the standard-issue pants, fumbling slightly but refusing to let anything distract him from the absolute delight of kissing Luke; frankly, he doesn’t think he could stop right now even if he wanted to.

When he finally takes Luke in his hand, Luke makes a quiet sound that tears at his heart, hiding his face against Poe’s shoulder as if trying to stifle himself. Poe takes his chin in his hand and makes him meet his eyes, his heart overflowing with a devastating tenderness that is instinctive yet wholly unfamiliar; he leans in to kiss the tear tracks on Luke’s cheeks, lingering on the edge of his jaw, dips his head lower to brush a reverent kiss to the corner of his mouth. Luke whimpers brokenly, trembling with the quiet enormity of this, eyes shockingly blue and vulnerable as they lock onto Poe’s. Poe just smiles and kisses him again, swallowing Luke’s gasp as he finally, finally starts to move his hand.

It’s a little sloppy, Poe still somewhat uncoordinated in his own aftermath, but Luke doesn’t seem to care. His quiet sounds are a delight all on their own, each hitching breath a tiny victory, and Poe is right there with him, falling and soaring and flying with him, whispering praise and encouragement into his skin. Poe feels full to bursting with the breathtaking joy of it, to be so utterly and wholeheartedly lost.

When Luke gets close, Poe deliberately slows down his movements. He brushes his thumb over the sensitive head once, twice, then twists his wrist and stills; Luke gives a strangled groan, his lips parting on a sigh and his hips shifting in restless pursuit of release. He draws in a shaky breath, almost quivering with need but trying desperately to control himself.

Poe waits until Luke meets his gaze before he grins and captures his mouth in a fierce kiss, tipping his head back so he can lick into his mouth. It’s hot and wet and just the right amount of filthy, and it pushes Luke over the edge. Tidal waves of indescribable heat wash over them both as Luke reaches his climax, giving a choked sob as he finally lets go. Poe holds him through it with the blood singing in his veins.

*

Afterwards, it doesn’t take long for the events of the day to catch up with Poe again; he is suddenly so exhausted that he stumbles where he stands. Luke notices, of course, and looks abashed and vaguely guilty for “keeping him on his feet” as he leads him over to the single cot in the corner. Poe can’t even muster up the brainpower to make a vaguely inappropriate joke about that; he just removes his flight suit on autopilot and crashes down onto the bed, inhaling deeply as soon as his head hits the pillow – the bed smells like Luke, familiar and comforting, and Poe just… doesn’t want him to leave. Possibly not ever, but especially not now.

When Luke prepares to walk away, presumably to sit somewhere in the corner all night or something equally self-sacrificing, Poe stops him by flinging a hand out to the side. “Stay,” he mumbles sleepily into the pillow, pressing himself into the wall and patting the small empty space beside him in uncoordinated invitation. Luke huffs quietly but doesn’t protest, removing his shirt and pants before sliding in beside him.

It’s a bit cramped and uncomfortable, but Poe finds he doesn’t care – he just snuggles into Luke and exhales contentedly, already embarrassingly close to sleep. Luke draws one of Poe’s arms across his middle, leaning back to press a gentle kiss to his shoulder. “Good night, Poe,” he murmurs into the stillness of the room, his warmth a reassuring blanket around them both; it’s the last thing Poe hears before he drifts off to sleep.

*

The next morning, Poe wakes up by degrees. The first thing he becomes aware of is the reassuring weight of another person pressed into his side, warm and heavy in sleep. The next is that he’s sore from the mission yesterday – he winces as he reaches up to move a hand over his face, muscles twinging in protest even at the small movement. The third is that he’s hard.

It’s not exactly a surprise, and it’s not urgent – Poe feels kind of lazy about it, far too content where he is to consider getting out of bed. He does shift onto his back with some difficulty, not wanting Luke to wake up with his erection poking into his back. Staring drowsily up at the ceiling, Poe can’t help the slightly dopey grin overtaking his face.

He can’t believe he’s here. He can’t believe they’re both here.

The mattress is thin and lumpy and definitely too narrow to accommodate two grown men, yet Poe has slept better than he has in months. And now, bathed in a golden warmth that feels almost decadent, he’s more at ease than he remembers being in a long time. Somehow, the knowledge simultaneously delights and terrifies him.

He notices immediately when Luke wakes, can feel him stiffen and start to draw away until he exhales in realization and consciously relaxes against him. Poe smiles, turning his head to face him and meeting sleepy blue eyes. Luke’s expression is soft in the early morning light, open and completely unguarded. It takes Poe’s breath away.

“Hey,” he whispers, and feels the helpless happiness breaking through the cracks in his voice. Luke smiles in response, the skin around his eyes crinkling adorably as his eyes light up, and Poe is almost heartbroken with the beauty of him.

Poe reaches out to run his thumb along the skin just below Luke’s cheekbone, pleased when Luke hums contentedly and doesn’t bother to suppress his shiver. When Poe leans in to kiss him, Luke goes willingly, turning fully into him with a breathy sigh. They exchange drowsy kisses for a while, lost in the quiet pleasure of learning to know each other, their limbs tangling warmly together. Poe can taste the edges of Luke’s smile, private and honey-warm, and it already feels like home.

Things are just starting to get a bit more invested when Luke stops them, pulling back with a frustrated sigh. Poe takes his cue and leans back to give him space, but Luke doesn’t draw away further, just looks at him with a serious expression. “Poe, I– are you sure about this?” he asks, his voice rough around the edges, and there is a world of uncertainty and desperation and suffering in the question that Poe can’t even begin to understand. There’s also a faint, stubborn edge of hope, though; Poe chooses to focus on that, pausing to consider the question with the courtesy it deserves before meeting Luke’s gaze head-on.

“I want you, Luke,” he tells him, echoing what he said on the tarmac what feels like ages ago, low and quiet and endlessly sincere. He watches the impact of his words, sees the hitch in Luke’s breathing and the way his eyes flash with something almost like triumph, then asks, “Are you? Sure?”

Luke’s eyes widen, as if astonished that this is even still a question, but his gaze softens as he realizes what Poe is trying to give him. “I am,” he says, calmly certain, and Poe thrills at that verbal assurance, but Luke is not done. He hesitates, deliberating, and then says, “I just- I need you to understand what this means.”

Poe sits up and leans back against the wall, drawing his hands into his lap as he watches Luke with intent, patiently giving him the space and time he needs to find his voice.

“When I… care about someone,” Luke begins haltingly, wringing his hands anxiously, “I turn them into a target. It is always a risk. Being associated with me, being important to me – it has consequences, and they can be… severe.” He breaks off and swallows hard, evidently lost in unhappy thought. Poe lets him be for a full minute before he speaks up.

“Luke–” he starts carefully, at the same time Luke bursts out with an agonized, “I can’t ask you to–” and then falls miserably, numbly silent. He sounds ruined, voice tight with the kind of despair that comes with years of self-denial, and Poe simply can’t let that stand.

“ _Luke–_ ” he says again, louder this time and leaning forward into Luke’s space; Luke looks at him with a guarded expression, obviously bracing for rejection. Poe already knows he will take vicious satisfaction in taking down his barriers, one at a time and as often as he needs to. The thought makes warmth pool in his belly, insistent and familiar, but he pushes it down for now. This is important.

“I was already a target, Luke,” he says, trying for a reasonable tone. When Luke makes as if to interrupt him, Poe waves a hand and asks rhetorically, “Do you really think the First Order takes kindly to people fighting this hard to take them down?” He anticipates Luke’s protest with a firm, “I know it’s not the same, but– well, honestly, they’ll be trying to kill me either way.” Luke flinches at the blunt reminder, and Poe gentles his tone as he meets Luke’s eyes, “The way I see it, it’s better to enjoy the time you have than to deny yourself any chance at happiness in a futile attempt to protect people.”

Poe falls silent after that, studying the quiet play of emotions across Luke’s face. He sits back against the wall with a soft sigh, keeping his eyes on Luke and waiting him out, unwaveringly present.

“I just– I never thought I’d have this,” Luke finally breathes out, barely more than a tremulous whisper. He sounds on the verge of tears, sounds torn apart, and Poe’s heart seizes painfully in his chest – somehow, he had half-expected Luke to draw away still; the final confirmation that Luke wants this too is like a shock to the system, terrifying and exhilarating at the same time.

Suddenly Poe can’t stand the careful distance between them a moment longer. He moves closer and reaches out to Luke, but doesn’t touch him yet, keeping his hand hovering just above Luke’s skin. “Yes or no?” he asks quietly, and waits until Luke meets his eyes, his gaze brilliantly blue.

The question falls into the quiet space between them, stretching into eternity.

“I– _yes_ , Poe,” Luke finally says, and that’s all the permission Poe needs. He draws Luke in and crashes their lips together, hard and unrelenting, cradling his cheek and licking into his mouth with a fluid kind of urgency. Luke lets out a trembling sigh that sounds like falling, sounds like a beginning and a promise, and Poe is lost and gone and _home_.

Poe shifts on the bed, needing to be closer, and Luke moves with him easily, turning completely into the kiss as he curls his fingers around Poe’s wrist. When Poe throws one leg over Luke’s knees to straddle his lap, kissing a wet trail down the side of Luke’s neck, they both hiss at the increased contact. Poe can feel Luke is hard, restless and aching for relief, and the heated look Luke sends him at the new position goes straight to his groin. The fire in Luke’s eyes sends a delicious thrill dancing down his spine, and Poe can’t resist drawing him in for another bruising kiss.

Poe rolls his hips down slowly, almost experimentally; Luke buries his moan against Poe’s shoulder and shivers helplessly, his hand dropping from Poe’s wrist and drifting lower, down across his ribcage to settle on his waist. He tightens his grip when Poe leans down to suck a bruise into the junction of his neck and shoulder, and the added pressure is unexpected; Poe isn’t quick enough to suppress his involuntary gasp as a flare of pain shoots sharply up his side.

Luke freezes and immediately tries to pull back, frowning when Poe doesn’t let him go. “You’re hurt,” Luke states redundantly, keeping stubbornly still; Poe almost wants to laugh at the way he manages to sound concerned and vaguely disapproving even when his voice is rough and he’s panting and flushed and _still hard_ – except that if they stop right now, Poe thinks he might actually die. “No–” he grinds out, and he knows how absolutely wrecked he sounds, can taste the desperation on the back of his tongue, “no– Luke, _please_ –” and he doesn’t even care that he’s practically begging, can’t think of anything else to say, his thoughts hazy and scattered and incoherent.

Thankfully, Luke seems to understand him anyway, his eyes softening as he searches Poe’s face for any trace of uncertainty. Apparently satisfied with what he finds, he reaches up to push Poe’s hair away from his face, then leans in to kiss him again, cradling his cheek with one unsteady hand. He sighs shakily when Poe settles back in his lap, the hot press of their bodies together reminding them both of their arousal. Poe whimpers into the kiss and tilts his head, tendrils of heat licking up his spine and skittering across his skin. When Luke responds in kind, drawing Poe in like the tide and kissing him breathless, Poe finally allows himself to relinquish control. This is a force of nature, an open flame, and in the inferno they are both burning up.

Eventually, albeit reluctantly, they are forced to come up for air. Luke reaches up to card his fingers slowly through Poe’s hair before dragging his thumb down to the corner of his mouth, the gesture somehow tender and deliciously filthy at the same time. Poe flicks out his tongue to the pad of Luke’s thumb, taking it into his mouth and lightly sucking, and watches Luke’s eyes darken impossibly, the blue of his irises obscured almost completely by the endless black of his pupils. Making the most of his momentary distraction, Poe leans in to drag his lips tantalisingly over the sensitive skin of Luke’s neck. Luke chokes on a moan and bucks up against him, delightfully responsive as his ironclad control frays at the edges. Poe feels oddly humbled by the way Luke is breaking apart for him – his heart sings with the knowledge that this man, who has seen entire galaxies kneel at his feet and walked away, is shattering so unquestioningly into his waiting hands.

Poe whines in protest when Luke briefly shifts away, but Luke is only urging him out of his lap in favour of a more horizontal position. When he realizes Luke is using the Force to boost his strength, Poe gives an involuntary whimper, his voice sounding breathy and hoarse to his own ears – Luke cocks a half-amused eyebrow at that but doesn’t comment, and Poe can’t muster up the mental energy to be embarrassed. Before long Luke is looming over him again, caging Poe in and kissing a trail up his chest with excruciating care, systematically taking him apart with hands and tongue and teeth. When he reaches a nipple and applies his teeth, light and curious, Poe throws his head back into the pillow and cries out, and Luke smiles and does it again, and again, and again.

Minutes or hours or days pass in a blur as Poe is slowly and steadily driven out of his mind. Their combined weight presses him firmly into the mattress as he squirms and gasps for breath, his heart pounding under his skin and roaring in his ears. Luke alternates between kissing him into oblivion and worshipping the rest of his body, making small appreciative noises as he carefully maps him out. Poe tries to reciprocate, but when he reaches for Luke his hand is batted away. Luke takes hold of both of his wrists with one hand and pins them to the mattress above Poe’s head, a suggestion more than an actual restraint. “Not yet,” Luke just says, not explaining further but meeting his eyes without a trace of darkness or hesitation; Poe relents easily, willingly, giving in to him with a dark thrill of shivery satisfaction, safe in the bone deep knowledge that Luke would rather tear himself apart than hurt him. He keeps his hands to himself, content to lie back as Luke continues his maddening exploration.

Poe almost sobs with relief when Luke finally rubs the heel of his hand against his cock, the touch light and teasing but undeniably there. He arches up into the touch without thought, and the resulting wave of sensation is nearly blinding in its ferocity. Luke doesn’t oblige him for long, though, moving away from his cock to kiss along the jutting edge of his hip and suck a line of purpling bruises into the sensitive skin. Poe groans and closes his eyes, twisting his hands in the sheets as he fights against the overwhelming urge to come – it wouldn’t be difficult at all to let go, to allow the tension building inside him to swallow him whole, but– not yet. He wants to keep this going for a while longer.

Eventually Luke takes pity on him, tugging down his underwear and giving his cock a few firm strokes – the rough pressure is unreal, and Poe can feel his eyes roll back into his head as he shudders out a moan, the sound catching desperately at the back of his throat. “Poe,” Luke says, and waits until Poe meets his eyes, “I want to fuck you. Can I?” His low voice is deceptively calm, but there is a storm brewing in his eyes that makes Poe shiver helplessly. He blurts out his answer almost before Luke finishes the question. “ _Fuck_ , yes. _Yes._ Anything.” And then, after a brief moment of hesitation– “Can I touch you?”

Luke’s answer may be pretty obvious from the way his breath goes gratifyingly unsteady at the question, or the way his eyes darken with arousal, but Poe still waits for his nod before lowering his hands from their position above his head. He lets his hands wander lightly across the strong planes of Luke’s shoulders and upper back, his entire body humming with anticipation as Luke digs around for something between the mattress and the wall. Poe feels… strange, but in a good way – a minute ago he was about to fly apart, right at the edge and refusing to look down; now he feels almost calm, pliant and loose-limbed, strung tight yet strangely centred by the arousal buzzing steadily under his skin. He watches Luke and is, for a suspended moment, utterly, wholeheartedly content.

Luke finally comes back up with a triumphant noise and a small bottle, a half-smile on his face as he turns back to Poe. “I knew it was in there somewhere,” he offers in explanation, his smile turning almost sheepish as he meets Poe’s eyes. Poe feels his own mouth pull up in a lopsided smile in response, treacle slow and unbearably fond. He reaches out to trace a single line down Luke’s cheek, and Luke leans unhesitatingly into his touch.

“Luke–” Poe breathes out, half-broken and almost disbelieving, the name slipping from his lips like a prayer, and Luke’s eyes flash to his. Their eyes meet and hold, tension spiking wild and visceral between them. Luke swallows thickly but doesn’t look away, and just like that the mood shifts again. Heat rushes over Poe in a single overwhelming wave and pools low in his belly, warm and irresistible, another dam crumbling under the weight of their desire.

Poe draws Luke back in by the shoulders, meeting his lips in a desperate, fumbling kiss. Luke gives as good as he gets, crowding him insistently back into the mattress as he kisses a sloppy line down his heaving chest and to his stomach. Here he pauses and looks up at Poe through his lashes, eyes wide and pupils utterly blown; the sight sends another heady jolt of arousal down Poe’s spine. “Still yes?” Luke asks, his voice rough and heavy with intent, and Poe shudders and nods, not quite trusting himself to speak. Luke studies his face for another moment before he relents and presses a lingering kiss to Poe’s quivering stomach; his hand comes up to curl proprietarily around his hip, familiar and hot like a brand.

When Luke’s hand finally trails down between Poe’s legs, Poe parts his legs to give him room. The quiet _snick_ of the bottle is overly loud in the breathy silence, and Poe bites back a moan as Luke sucks another tingly bruise into the divot of his hip. “Let me hear you,” Luke murmurs against his overheated skin, breath fanning maddeningly across Poe’s straining cock as his fingers trace a feathery path across his balls, almost too close but still not close enough.

Luke doesn’t give further warning before he takes him in his mouth; Poe arches up with a strangled shout, and Luke’s forearm dropping across him to hold him down feels like an anchor. Luke sinks down around him as far as he can go and hums low in his throat, somehow managing to sound pleased as he swallows him down. The rush of sensation is almost enough to distract Poe when Luke slips his first finger inside, probing at him with careful attentiveness. Poe releases a shaky breath, deliberately relaxing into the delicate intrusion; Luke pulls off to check on him, and Poe whines in protest before he can stop himself. There’s a definite smug edge to Luke’s slow smile as he leans back down to take him in again, and Poe is lost, and lost, and lost.

Poe winds a trembling hand around the nape of Luke’s neck, needing something to hold onto as Luke does his level best to drive him out of his mind, and Luke hums approvingly around his cock, crooking his finger experimentally. When he finds what he’s looking for, Poe chokes on a gasp and jerks up involuntarily, stars exploding across his vision as he chases the sensation. Luke moans around him and effortlessly holds him down; that probably shouldn’t be as arousing as it is, but Poe has no means to defend against his own mind, has long since given up on that endeavour.

Luke adds another finger before long, and the stretch is a lot but not uncomfortable; Poe welcomes the slight burn as he adjusts to the breach, loving Luke’s quiet focus and the tiny frown of concentration creasing his brow. Luke has patience and skill enough to make it worth his while, bringing him to the edge with ruthless precision before backing away again, stroking unerringly across his prostate on every third brush.

Luke pulls off of his cock and presses a kiss to the tip before he slips a third slick finger inside; he swears under his breath as Poe moans and bears down hard around him. He leans up to draw Poe into a messy kiss, more tongue and teeth than anything else, and Poe meets him in the middle with equal desperation. He flicks his tongue wickedly and grins into Luke’s mouth at the needy whine that elicits; then he does it again, and again, and again, giving into the low pulse of heat with everything he has, savouring the current as he lets it drag them down.

When Luke withdraws his fingers, Poe whimpers at the loss, the sudden emptiness leaving him feeling oddly adrift. Luke distracts him by dropping a line of fluttering kisses along the sensitive skin over his ribs, unwavering in his attentions even as he slicks himself up. He draws Poe into another insistent kiss, hot and generous as the blunt head of his cock nudges at Poe’s entrance. Poe groans low in his throat and lets his legs fall open even more in blatant invitation, kissing Luke determinedly through the resulting hitch in his breathing.

Poe only breaks away at the first press of Luke’s cock into him, gasping as his heart stutters to a stop, then picks up again in double-time. It has been some time since he has done this, and the first push is devastatingly intense. Luke is careful as he slowly fills him up, one gentle hand cupping Poe’s hip, open adoration and resolve written all over his face as he watches Poe for any sign of discomfort. When his eyes on Poe become too much after a while, Poe closes his own, feeling the hot drag inside him and letting himself get lost in it.

Luke pauses as he bottoms out, breathing heavily with his hips snug against Poe’s ass; Poe can feel him trembling as he fights the urge to move. “Poe–” he chokes out, sounding awed and almost overwhelmed, Poe’s name a benediction and a plea on his lips, and Poe _understands_. He bucks up the tiniest amount and sees stars, feels Luke’s control shatter even further; then he leans up to kiss him and says, low and urgent against his panting mouth, “ _Move.”_

Luke does.

He starts slow, with long, firm strokes that brush just shy of where Poe wants them most. Poe reaches up to sling an arm loosely around Luke’s neck and mouths wetly at the underside of his jaw; Luke shudders and falters, then picks up the pace, and this time his angle is just right. Luke brings his hand up to close around Poe’s cock, stroking it insistently in time with his inexorable rhythm, and Poe’s toes curl into the sheets as the breath punches out of him.

Poe loses his train of thought as he slowly unravels at the seams. He’s been teetering on the brink for far too long already; he can feel his orgasm building inside him and is powerless to stop it, powerless to do anything other than ride the waves of sizzling pleasure as they rip relentlessly through him. Luke twists his wrist and aims another hot drag directly at his prostate and Poe mewls in the back of his throat, throwing his head back as his release finally claims him, lost in the dull roar of his blood in his ears and the swelling, pulsing warmth in the centre of his chest.

When he opens his eyes, Luke is still over him, still hot and hard inside him, close enough that they’re breathing the same air; he’s not moving, though, waiting for Poe to come back down, and it shouldn’t surprise Poe but somehow it does. “Come on,” Poe urges him, rolling his hips in encouragement and swallowing Luke’s desperate moan, “ _Luke._ ”

Luke thrusts inside once at his command, and the brutal rush of overstimulation is almost too much for Poe’s unresisting body – Poe exhales raggedly and curls his hands in the sheets, his entire body shivering with unbearable sensation. The next thrust is better, a new kind of sparks racing up his spine and skittering across his skin. Poe clenches hard around him and Luke swears, then shifts slightly and drives into him again – Poe welcomes him and sees stars, moans along with it, pliant and soft and ridiculously happy.

There’s a kind of breathless victory in this, Poe thinks deliriously, in knowing Luke’s power yet feeling him yield to this, yield to _him_ ; it’s sacrifice, the ultimate surrender, and there are no gods here but them, making their own religion between them with bloody hands and trembling hearts.

“Luke–” Poe breathes out again, wondering and wide open, his voice raw and almost pleading. Luke’s eyes open at the sound of his voice, hazy with desire and riotous emotion, and Poe can’t help but kiss him again, gasping and desperately earnest. Luke falters in his rhythm, then stops, breathing unsteadily against Poe’s mouth; he’s close and nearly frantic with it, and Poe knows it, feels it in his bones. He opens his mouth to tug sharply on Luke’s lower lip, biting down and soothing the sting with a swipe of his tongue, and it’s all the encouragement Luke needs. He groans and picks up a demanding pace, his hand tangling roughly into Poe’s hair and the stutter of his hips increasingly erratic, and Poe kisses and kisses and kisses him until he rocks to shuddering stillness inside him.

Then it’s just the two of them together, coming down, hot and messy and entwined. Luke pulls out and sags against him, tension bleeding out of him as he burrows into Poe’s chest, uncaring of the mess or the distinct lack of space; Poe draws him close and smiles quietly into his hair, feeling soft and warm and unbearably fond. He reaches down to trail an inquisitive hand across Luke’s back, and Luke shivers lightly but doesn’t move away, boneless and trusting against him. Familiar warmth flares out benevolently around them both; Poe lets it envelop him without fear or uncertainty, welcomes it as it seeps into his skin and his bones and his heart. He holds Luke tight as he closes his eyes and allows himself to drift.

They don’t make it out of bed for quite some time.

*

Somehow, they make it work. It isn’t easy, and it isn’t perfect, but it is worth it – it is worth everything. Their hands may be scarred but they hold each other up, anchor and escape and promise rolled into one; their broken pieces fit perfectly together. They make each other happy, and they make each other free, and their freedom tastes sweeter for being hard-won. It has never sounded appealing to Poe before, this kind of utter devotion, this kind of wholehearted attachment – now it is the only thing that makes sense.

Some days, Poe still wakes up gasping and terrified and raw with phantom sensation, memories of the Finalizer looming larger than life; some days, everything feels like a threat, hot and constricting and too close; Luke is always there, silent when he needs to be or loud and bright enough to drown out everything else. Luke has his own issues to deal with, too; when choking guilt and ancient rage leave him hollow-eyed and withdrawn, Poe learns to recognize when to leave him alone and when to hold him close.

Poe watches Luke while he reads, sitting on Poe’s bunk with his back against the wall, a half-forgotten mug tilting precariously in his hand. The planes of his face are lit up by the early morning light streaming through the window, making him look softer than he is, golden-edged and ethereal. Poe can’t stop the wave of fierce tenderness washing over him at the sight, at the unapologetic domesticity of it, nor does he particularly feel like trying. That, too, is a newfound kind of freedom.

If this is the sum of his life, Poe thinks he can’t complain.

And that’s when he knows.

“Hey, Luke,” he says, prodding Luke’s knee with his socked foot, and smiles at the way Luke tilts his head in his direction, indulging him without looking away from his book. Watching him, Poe feels nervous and exhilarated at the same time, his heart suddenly firmly in his throat. He hesitates a second too long, and Luke looks up from his book, raising an eyebrow in silent question.

It feels right. It feels terrifying, but it feels right, and Poe doesn’t want to hold anything back anymore. And so he smiles, takes a steadying breath, and leaps.

“I love you,” he says, because he does. “I love you,” he says, and watches Luke’s shoulders slump in something like inevitability. He hears the absolute conviction in his own voice, and it feels like the biggest truth he’s ever told. Maybe it is.

“Poe–” Luke breathes out, and he sounds awestruck, sounds _relieved_ – “Poe, I–” and his voice wavers and then breaks, his eyes wide and wet and almost too blue, and Poe is the happiest he’s ever been.

Luke scrambles towards him on the bed, graceless and without a thought for dignity, and doesn’t stop until he is holding Poe’s face in trembling hands. His searching eyes are bright and full of tears, and Poe feels boundless joy well up inside him at the sight, seeping inexorably into the very core of him. Luke is radiating emotion, fierce determination and indescribable devotion, hot and wild and brutally honest, and Poe’s heart is shattering inside his chest. When they finally kiss, Luke whispers reassurance and promise and incandescent truth into his skin, over and over and over again, and it is everything.

Poe may have lived through things he wishes he didn’t, may have seen and done things that should have destroyed him, may still have nightmares that leave him breathless, may have once shattered under the hands of a cruel man, but that is not all he has.

This is what he has. He has Luke, all resilience and stubbornness and blazing heat. He has Finn’s easy friendship and Rey’s fierce, unquestioning loyalty. He has General Organa’s trust and her steely protection. He has his squadron, Jess and Snap and Xan and the others, his family by everything but blood, forged through stardust and fire. He has BB-8, irreverent and dependable; he has the quiet, enduring solidity of his X-Wing.

Poe is alive, recklessly and unflinchingly and desperately so, and this is what he has.

It’s more than enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading, I really hope you enjoyed! Kudos and comments are always appreciated! You can also find me on [tumblr](http://www.dustbottle.tumblr.com), come and say hi!
> 
> [Avenelle](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Avenelle) and [Donovia](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Donovia) actually exist within the Star Wars universe, and according to [this cool map](http://www.swgalaxymap.com/%20), they are relatively close to each other! 
> 
> (Also, there are no condoms used in this story. This takes place in an entirely different universe, so I figured I could get away with it. No such excuses in real life, though. Be safe, be smart - use a condom!)


End file.
